


Disguise

by kaalee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 02:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaalee/pseuds/kaalee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's disguises are little more than a nuisance to John until one day he walks into the kitchen dressed as someone from John's past, someone John had tried to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/7277.html?thread=34633325#t34633325) on sherlockbbc_fic. This was originally posted anonymously; I'm finally de-anoning.
> 
> Many thanks to incapricious and tailoredshirt for the beta work and to augmentedme for the consult on medical accuracy. ♥

  
**Disguise  
John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, rated nc17**   


 

The barista at the coffee shop is flirting with him again. John grins at her when she asks his name, lowers his voice, and says, "Now if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

He's rather relieved when instead of snorting at him for such an uninspired response, she smiles at him and says, "Why don't I just make something up, then?"

"I'll look forward to it."

"I'm Kate," she tells him as she writes a name on the cup and hands it to the barista that's making the drinks.

"Well, thank you, Kate."

John watches her as she talks to the other customers, moving gracefully in such a small space, though he can see that she favours her right leg. She's fluid as she moves, though, and he can only see the slight limp because he knows how it feels. _Dancer_ , John guesses. He doesn't know of any dance school nearby but he'll ask Sherlock when he sees him.

There's something fluid about her movements; it prickles the back of his mind, but he can't place where he might have seen her before.

"Earl grey for... uh, Leopold George Duncan Albert," the barista calls and it takes a moment before John realizes its his tea. He thanks the barista and holds up the cup in a salute to Kate as he walks out of the shop, the cup warming his hand and rather a bit of hope warming his heart.

 

~*~

 

Several hours later John's home early from his shift at the surgery. He calls a greeting to Mrs. Hudson, then takes the stairs a few at a time and finds himself alone in the flat. Sherlock's had a bit of a dry spell recently, which sees him spending far too much time at home, underfoot, and in the bloody way. This is a nice change.

Maybe he can watch a bit of telly and plot out a way to get Kate's phone number the next time he goes in.

He goes to turn on the kettle for a cuppa and is relieved to find nothing in the refrigerator but milk, eggs, and the odd white box from the lab that's been there for three weeks now. _A fridge empty of body parts,_ John thinks as he grabs the milk and walks to the cupboard above the sink for a mug, _how novel._

Then he looks down.

He drops the milk.

There are fingers in the sink.

Fingers. In a colander. In the sink.

As though someone were draining a bit of pasta to have for supper.

John glances upward at the ceiling and takes a deep breath. If he were a better man he'd throw them out. If he were a better man, he'd tell Sherlock that normal people have laboratories for housing hazardous experiments that might put someone off of their food.

But John's not a better man. He leaves the fingers, untouched, in the colander (in the sink!) and grabs a teabag for his mug. The water is boiling by now. When he starts for it he slips and overbalances as he tries to right himself, catching himself with his left hand on the back of one of the chairs and wrenching his shoulder as he does so.

"Bloody hell," he swears. What in the hell was on the floor? He looks down, expecting to see blood or placenta or some other human fluid that he's knocked over.

But no, it's just milk. Milk from the container he himself dropped upon discovering the fingers (in the colander!) in the sink. He swears again, this time in a string of highly descriptive words his mother would have sent him out of the house for were she still alive.

John stands in the middle of the puddle of milk thinking out his next step. In any other flat, he'd simply step out of his shoes to avoid tracking the milk anywhere else, get a towel, and clean the spill. But John knows a great portion of what Sherlock has done with his experiments during his period of unemploy and he's not entirely certain his stocking feet would protect him from the various chemicals and/or diseases that might have taken up residence on the kitchen floor. He sighs, taking a step to reach for a tea towel -- or perhaps two. He tosses one onto the floor and steps on it to clean the soles of his shoes. After his shoes are relatively clean, he kneels down with the second towel and the industrial strength spray cleaner that he bought in a fit of frustration after finding the entrails of several different animals on the kitchen counter one day last March.

Sherlock bangs into the flat a minute or two later with a takeaway cup in his hand and frowns at John.

"Why are you on your knees in the middle of the kitchen?"

John's tempted to mutter under his breath, _why don't you deduce it for yourself,_ but takes the safer road and says, "Spilled the milk."

"Hmmm... that's surprising," Sherlock says. "You've never been clumsy."

"Well, if there weren't bloody _fingers_ in the sink, I wouldn't have spilled the milk."

Sherlock thinks about that. "That doesn't follow."

John breathes through his nose. Several times. "I was holding the milk when I saw the delightfully surprising contents of the sink and dropped it."

Sherlock doesn't respond for a moment, then nods and holds out the cup in his hand. "I brought you a tea. Thought you might need it. You're always a bit wound after you get home from surgery."

John is oddly touched by the gesture and accepts it wordlessly. Sherlock smiles at him. "Dinner? I thought we might get Chinese."

"Yeah, that sounds great."

After inhaling the warm citrusy scent, John takes a sip of tea and then sets it down on the table. "There's that new place that just opened over on-- _hang on_."

He glances at the name on the takeaway cup and frowns. Leopold George Duncan Albert. Why does he know that name? His mind pauses, rewinds through the day slowly until he alights on the afternoon trip he took to get a cup of tea.

"Sherlock?" he calls. "Were you at the coffee shop today?"

"Obviously." His voice is muffled; he must be reading. "I was trying out a few things to prepare for a future case. I'm surprised you didn't recognise me."

"Recognise you? Why would I--"

"Well, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

John's heart freezes a moment, then resumes a rather erratic rhythm. "Oh my god," he says quietly. Then, walking into the sitting room, "That was you? At the coffee shop? You were Kate?"

Sherlock looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

John's mind goes back over the exchange: the barista's smile, the way she looked right into his eyes, John's pathetic attempt at flirting. _Oh god._ He feels himself flush.

"I can't believe I flirted with you."

"I'd hardly call that flirting."

John has no response for that.

"How did you not know?" Sherlock asks earnestly. "I was certain you'd figure it out as soon as you read the name."

John walks back into the kitchen to pick up the cup. "Leopold George Duncan Albert," he reads aloud. "Why would I know that name?"

Sherlock sighs. "Don't you remember when you were watching that special on the telly? About the war?"

John nods. It had been a good special. About a month ago, if he recalled.

"Wait, what does that have to do with the name on the cup?"

"There was an advert for commemorative plates after the show..." Sherlock is clearly leading him towards the answer, but John has no idea.

"And?"

"The commemorative _royal_ plates honouring each of Queen Victoria's children?"

John knows his face is infuriatingly blank.

Sherlock sighs again. "Seriously, John. It's obvious. Leopold George Duncan Albert was Queen Victoria's youngest son. He suffered from haemophilia. I can't believe you don't remember. They named all nine children on the advert. I thought you would have picked up on it the moment you held the cup."

"Naturally." John rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of tea. So, he spent his afternoon break flirting with his male flatmate, who was dressed as a woman, and he had no idea. His shoes are still damp from the milk he spilled on the floor after discovering a pile of fingers in a colander in the middle of the sink, put there by his male flatmate. Now they're considering dinner as though this were just a normal day.

He grins, then goes to sit in the chair across from Sherlock.

"So... Chinese, then?"

 

~*~

 

John doesn't mean to break the washer. But Sherlock is in one of his little snits (he really is like a child some -- if not most -- of the time) and John is fed up with all of the scientific detritus being left on every bloody surface of the flat.

So, he balls up all of the rags, the tea towels, various socks strewn under tables and the sofa, and shoves them into the washer, hard. John ignores the stomp of bare feet going upstairs and simply concentrates on the laundry. He has to jam it all in to fit, but when he stands back from setting the timer and adding the washing soap, he feels a little bit better.

He next attacks the dishes, the canisters he's willing to touch, and old newspapers. Twenty minutes later he's feeling a bit lighter and whistles low as he works ( _In my life_ by the Beatles, his favourite). He even grabs a pair of surgical gloves and bins several of the more suspect containers lying around.

The buzz of repeated texts doesn't faze him; he ignores various objects being tossed down the stairs. John's bloody well not going to give Sherlock more attention right now.

However, when the washer jams, sounds a buzzer like a strangled cat, and starts pouring water onto the floor he'd just started mopping, John swallows his pride and calls out for help.

"Fascinating," Sherlock says later as they pile the sodden towels onto a plastic rubbish bag. "I'd never considered the quantity of water that washers use. Have you caused others to overflow before? What can you remember?"

"Sorry," John says, the fight gone out of him. "This was my first time."

 

~*~

 

A few days later John is at the local laundry again. He had never really thought about the quantity of washing the two of them acquire in such a short time, though John's long suspected Sherlock of either allowing Mycroft to arrange for his own laundering or simply binning clothes when they're dirty and replacing them on a bi-weekly basis through internet purchases. He's never seen Sherlock hold an iron, nor even touch the washer.

But apparently he's decided to start using a laundry basket to hold (god forbid!) laundry.

So John volunteered (or at least he thinks he did) to take out the washing whilst Sherlock busied himself with some very important research into the depth and pressure the pads of his fingers make when pressed against each other whilst lying supine on the sofa.

 

~*~

 

After taking over four washers, John sits and pulls out a couple of journals that he's been wanting to read for ages. He opens the most recent issue of _The Lancet_ and thumbs through it, waiting for something to catch his eye.

He's halfway through a world report on _Healing the mental scars of combat_ when he feels someone watching him.

The lad across the way eyes him and John smiles back, embarrassed. Sure, he gets the odd look, but rarely from men, and fewer, if he were completely honest, than he might like.

He has an interesting look to him: pale but with clearly bleached hair. It should make him look washed out, but instead invites double takes.

John glances at the washer. He has another twenty-four minutes or so, and he can't decide if he'd like to finish the article or not. After a few moments he glances up and makes eye contact with the bloke across the way. Still looking.

His face heats. John can't remember the last time someone looked at him with such hunger in their (dark, beautiful) eyes. So, he sets down the journal and walks over.

"I'm John," he says. Which is a perfectly logical opener.

"Brian," the bloke says.

"Oh. American, then?"

"Yeah. Chicago. But I heard the men in London were worth checking out."

John laughs and sits down. "Well, I don't know where you got your information, Brian, but there are far better places to meet men than in a laundromat in the middle of central London."

Brian puts his hand on John's knee. "You're far too modest."

"You have no idea."

"So, do you come here often?"

John tilts his head, amused. "Does that work in America?"

"Not even once. Guess it doesn't work in the UK, either."

"Didn't say it wasn't working."

Brian's smile goes all the way through his eyes. "Then, by all means, answer the question."

"Don't come here often, no. This is my first time."

"Lucky for me."

John's a little breathless from the entire exchange. He rarely has such good fortune flirting with anyone and can't believe his inane chatter is working. Brian's hand is slowly sliding up his leg.

Brian mutters something rather suggestive and John's mind skips.

"I'm sorry... what was that?"

Brian leans over slowly, pushes his lips just under John's ear. His breath tickles John's neck when he speaks.

"Would you care. To meet me. In the gents?"

John's mind blanks for a moment. Because... _yes_. Yes, he would like the chance to get off with another person for the first time in a good while. Brian can't be more than thirty -- not with that hair -- and John's in no danger of falling for him. He just wants to be _desired._

He can't quite find the right words, not with Brian breathing against his skin, so John nods -- more than once. Part of him can't believe what he's just agreed to.

Brian grins at him, then stands and heads directly to the loo. John glances around the laundromat. There are a few other people there, but no one is paying him any mind. The washers still have 18 minutes blinking; he's got plenty of time. He counts to fifteen in his head then follows Brian into the gents.

As soon as he pushes open the door John's pressed against the wall with hands tangled in his shirt and warm breath on his neck.

"God, John, your _mouth_. I kept watching it. You lick your lips, purse them, grin. It was driving me crazy. I want to put my tongue in your goddamn mouth."

And John... John just wants that. He wants to let everything around him fall away, just for a moment. He wants to let go of the world and feel. Tilting his head, he looks at Brian's mouth: his lush lips full of pretty, dirty words. He breathes the air between the two of them; it's sweet and oddly familiar. Brian drags his lower lip over John's cheekbone, his eyelid, under his ear, humming under his breath as he does.

John's mind is sliding into a haze of fuzzy warmth and he's more than happy to let Brian's lips glide over his face for the next hour if he gets to keep feeling like this. It's almost as if he's let go of everything rational, everything filling his mind, just for this.

"Jesus," John breathes. "Your bloody lips."

He can feel Brian smile, his lips are at John's ear again and he's still humming. It's soothing and so fucking erotic all at once. He starts humming along, reaching around to hold Brian's neck. The tension builds inside him and all of this lip foreplay tingles under his skin.

Brian pulls away slightly and looks at him. Their lips are inches apart. It's so quiet now. If John were to move forward in the slightest they'd be—

The quiet. John's mind whirls for a moment. Brian's not humming anymore, but the song he'd been humming—

John's heart drops; an ice cold shudder goes through him. Brian had been humming _In my life_. He should have realized.

"Sherlock," he says quietly.

Neither of them move.

John takes a deep breath. Then another. Sherlock hasn't moved; they're still just inches from each other.

"You get the washing then," John says. "I'm done here."

He walks out.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock returns less than an hour later. He hangs his coat and comes into the sitting room. The disguise is gone. John has made a cup of tea and is sitting in his chair with it balanced on his knee. The telly is on, but he has the sound off.

"You're angry with me."

John doesn't say anything.

"You left the laundromat without saying a word. You couldn't have walked anywhere before you returned to the flat. You made a cup of tea, discarded it in anger, then made a second. You've managed to stare at the curls of steam rising above it, but not drink a single sip."

Of course Sherlock has characterised John's approach to tea preparation and consumption. Of course he has. But John is still pissed off at... at well, everything. He doesn't bloody understand why Sherlock would--

And yet, he's still fascinated by Sherlock's remarkable ability to take a cursory glance around and _see_ things. There's one piece of Sherlock's little monologue of which John can't make sense.

"How do you know I didn't go for a walk before coming back here?"

"Obvious. You took the most direct route back from the laundromat."

"Maybe I did," John said, still interested in spite of himself. "How did you know?"

"The most direct route home passes the Chinese restaurant and a bookshop, but no market. Any other possible route passes at least one market. We are in need of milk. There is no new milk in the kitchen, no milk in your tea. Inference: you took the most direct route home."

"Maybe I was too upset to get milk."

Sherlock raises his eyebrow at John, then cocks his head. John can't help but smile. His anger -- well, it doesn't melt, but it shrinks a little. It's not battering around in the front of his mind anymore. Sherlock's right, the bastard. John would never pass a market without going in if they were in need of milk. Bloody consulting detective. Always -- or very nearly always -- right.

John picks up his teacup and takes a small sip, grimaces at the lack of milk, then looks toward the door where Sherlock hung his coat.

"Wait, where's the washing?"

Sherlock blinks, looks around, and then genuinely looks sheepish. "I have no idea."

 

~*~

 

That night in bed, John falls heavily into sleep. He dreams hard: Afghanistan, explosions, bombs strapped to his chest. Body parts, screams, shouts in anger. When he wakes, John's mind is foggy, heavy. He's tangled in blankets; his mouth is dry and tastes of cotton. The pillow is damp under his cheek; his snug tee shirt is twisted and uncomfortable.

But he feels safe.

He reaches up, stretches his arms up under the pillow and lengthens his body as much as he can, feeling his muscles stretch and his joints pop. After a moment, he rolls over onto his back and bends his knees, lifting his hips up and stretching his back slowly.

From there he rolls his back slowly down onto the bed, one vertebra at a time, breathing slowly and deeply.

He doesn't have to be at work today, so John is tempted to stay in bed most of the day, falling into sleep when he can and existing in a haze of unawareness and denial.

The window's open and there's very little light coming in. It's still well before dawn, but a light breeze gusts over him, sending shivers over his damp flesh. He draws a sharp breath and shuts his eyes. The air feels new... arousing, and god, it's been a long time since he came.

John pulls off his tee shirt, sliding his hands above his head, languidly, just letting the air sweep over his body, arching upward again as though someone were pulling his stomach towards their lips for a kiss. He doesn't think of anyone in particular, not really, just imagines skin against his own, bodies sticky and aflame, and someone just as eager for his mouth as he is for theirs.

He arches again, digging his fingers into the sheets and curling his toes. The pictures in his imagination spread outward and take shape; John can feel hands on his skin now, touching low on his stomach, rubbing his nipples. He breathes out, grabbing the bedposts above his head and planting his feet. He's fully hard now. Rocking his hips upward, over and over, John feels himself tumbling headfirst into his daydream and he's powerless. He hasn't even touched himself.

A low, imagined voice whispers into his ear, telling him to let go, to fall into this desperate fantasy and damn the consequences. And he does.

John slides his hand down his stomach, grabs his cock, and strokes himself along with the rhythm building in his mind. He doesn't know how long he's been here (inside his mind) but he's clearly got to make a habit of this. John feels like he's floating above his bed, in the midst of darkness and breeze and he's... _god._ Sparks begin to ignite impossible places inside him. With a gasp and a low shout, John tenses, releases, and comes hard. He comes all over his belly, his fingers, the top sheet, then collapses down to the bed, wrecked. Breathing heavily, John smiles, then opens his eyes. He balls up the top sheet, mops himself up, then tosses it toward the laundry basket.

John pulls the light blanket over his body and sighs. He feels boneless and warm -- almost satisfied. A few months ago John would have been aching to get out of bed right now: away from the pain, the memories, the dreams. But it's not the dreams that he can't stop thinking about... it's everything else.

John's regularly haunted by dreams; it feels incongruous to be haunted by reality.

 

~*~

 

"No, Mrs. Davies," John assures her. "I'm certain that any maladies your past lives suffered from are no danger to you now."

"Are you certain?"

"Absolutely."

She beams at him. "Thank you, Doctor."

John makes a couple of notes on her chart, pushes back his chair, and walks to the door. Mrs. Davies follows him, pauses at the door, then takes his left hand in her own and examines it for a moment. She kisses his cheek rather messily.

"You are a love, Doctor Watson," she says happily. "If I were thirty years younger, I would snap you up in an instant."

"Mrs. Davies," he says, "I don't think I could ever hope to be good enough for you."

"Maybe one of my future lives will get you."

"One can only hope."

John hands Mrs. Davies her chart and nods at her as she heads to the desk. He's about to walk back into the examination room, but notices a police officer at the desk and pauses. He hasn't seen anything out of the ordinary or heard any commotion, so he waits for a moment, watching. He's not unsettled, not after months of living with Sherlock Holmes -- no one would be -- but he's definitely curious. This is a small office; they rarely have but the most common and mundane of ailments. John can't remember the last time he saw a police officer here.

Something about the officer tickles the back of his mind. John wonders if he's seen this officer at a crime scene with Sherlock, or possibly seen him at Scotland Yard. The officer is definitely business-oriented: talking very seriously with Prudence at the desk, taking careful notes as she looks up the information he's requested, but with a warmth to him as well. The officer is in his early 30's (a small, tell-tale patch greying his temples), and comfortable in his position. He clearly has been doing this job for a while, or else he's just very talented. Prudence is jumpy and nervous at the best of times, and she's as calm and collected as he's ever seen her with the officer.

"Miss Sc--" he starts to call out, but stops himself. He lets Mrs. Davies do the work for him. She gets to the desk, blinking up at the officer and crowding him away from the desk. He smiles at her, then turns slowly away, his eyes taking stock of the surroundings as every good police officer does. His eyes stop when they get to John, sweeping a long, slow trail up his body that John can feel like a laser. Warmth fills him; he doesn't meet his gaze right away. John does his own investigation of the police officer's body, stopping when he sees the hip holster. His eyes stutter to a stop.

The officer is carrying a Browning L9A1. _John's_ Browning L9A1.

Sherlock.

Sherlock took his gun. His bloody gun. To use in an elaborate attempt at pulling one over on him at his own job. John tries hard not to let his expression change; it would be nice to actually call Sherlock on something for a change.

Instead he does another slow once-over of the officer and holds his gaze, cocks his head, quirks the side of his mouth at him. John can flirt with the best of-- okay, that's not quite right, but he'd been rather good at flirting at one time or another. It's just been a while.

Prudence finishes with Mrs. Davies; he hears her embarrassed response to: "That Doctor Watson is a lovely one. Are you married? Because he'd make a fine husband. And I trust you've taken a good look at his arse."

John can feel his face flush but he doesn't change position. Sherlock-as-the-police-officer raises his eyebrows at him and John grins, then shrugs his shoulders in embarrassed agreement. He does have a rather fine arse, dammit. But John's mind races: how can he keep this going without letting Sherlock know that he's figured it out?

Surreptitiously, he reaches into his pocket and presses a few buttons on his phone.

The intercom buzzes and Prudence looks down. She grabs a chart, calls a new patient, and sends them shuffling toward John. He greets the surly teenager; she is frowning at him. He gestures her into the examination room, and turns back to look at Sherlock in disguise. John presses his lips together in a silent apology, but mimes writing something down, raises his eyebrows, and hopes Sherlock will interpret it for the invitation that it is.

 

~*~

John carries the folded paper triumphantly into the flat at the end of the day to find Sherlock frowning in front of an assembled case board above the fireplace.

"New case, then?" he asks as he hangs up his coat.

Sherlock doesn't answer, just frowns harder and puts another pin on the map.

"Ahhh, thinking. Well, I'll just make a cuppa and entertain myself."

John walks into the kitchen to put the kettle on, pointedly ignoring the rows of beakers full of unknown liquids and substances that he really doesn't want to know about until he's got a good start on digestion.

Just before the water boils, John tosses a few teabags into the pot and looks around the sink for clean teacups. There are three facedown on the counter, but he's a little wary of using them. Their dishes never quite make it off the table, sink, or counter, so John resigns himself to washing a few if he's interested in a cup of tea unmolested by arsenic or whatever new bacteria Sherlock is experimenting with at the moment.

Steam curls from the teapot and John breathes it in slowly as he fixes two cups. He carries them out to the living room, puts them on the end table and sits down on the armrest of his chair.

Sherlock hasn't moved, but he's mumbling to himself. _"It can't-- but... definitely not cholera."_ After a moment or two he steps back, satisfied, and turns to look at John.

John hands one of the cups to Sherlock and sits down in the chair.

"Figured it out, have you?"

"I believe so," Sherlock says. "I'm nearly certain I know who, I just don't know _why_. Yet."

He sits down in the chair across from John, takes a sip of tea, then looks down at it as if he doesn't know how it got there.

"This is good. How was the surgery today?"

"Fine."

Sherlock lifts the newspaper and gestures to a small article on the front page. "There's an outbreak in a few areas of London -- have you see this?"

John nods, keeps the smile out of his voice. "Yeah. There was a police officer at the surgery today."

"Oh?"

"I didn't know why he was there at first, but after a few patients, I read the paper and figured it out."

"Ahh, the science of deduction."

"I'm learning," John says. "You know, I am _actually_ a relatively intelligent human being."

"You know a lot, yes. You just don't always see."

John ignores his last, drinks his tea.

"So, who hit on you today, then?" Sherlock asks.

"Why would you think someone hit on me?" John says innocently. He's giddy with anticipation now; he reaches into his pocket and closes his fingers around the folded note.

"You actually hung your coat in the cupboard instead of tossing it over the back of the chair when you got home, made me a cup of tea without complaint, took in the state of the kitchen with naught but a smile, and you have that self-important grin wrinkle in your left cheek."

"And all that means that someone hit on me? Maybe someone hits on me every day."

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow at him.

"You heard Mrs. Davies; I have a fine arse."

"I did, indeed."

"And as someone with such a fine-- _wait_." John frowns and lets the last lines of their conversation replay in his mind. The giddiness drains out of him.

"... you knew?"

Sherlock looks at him. "Of course I knew. You figured it out as soon as you saw the Browning."

"But how could you--" John holds up the phone number he'd been clutching. "Why did you leave me your phone number, then?"

"That was for you."

"Obviously, Sherlock. I have it. Right here. In my hand."

Sherlock looks at him and cocks his head as if he's summoning endless amounts of patience through his upturned ear.

"That number is not _my_ mobile number. Which you would have figured out the moment you saw it. The number it is, though, should have been your clue that I knew you'd made me as the police officer."

John looks down at the numbers scrawled diagonally across the paper, tries to remember what they might be. His mind is blank; they mean nothing to him.

"You don't recognize them at all?"

"Not at all."

"I'm surprised that I've left such a poor and minor impression on you."

"Sherlock," John says quietly, "could you just explain it without getting all pedantic and childish? For once?"

"Jennifer Wilson."

"Jennifer Wils-- the pink lady?"

"Yes."

"So you wrote down _her_ phone number to show me that you knew that _I knew_ that the police officer that came into my workplace today and harassed Prudence, looked me over like I might make a fine meal, and goaded Mrs. Davies, was actually you. In disguise."

Sherlock nodded.

"And I should have recognized the number because I typed it into my phone once _four months ago_."

"It was an important case."

"Sherlock, how is that one more important than any of the hundreds of others you've had?"

"It was the case where I met you. That should have made an impression on your memory." Sherlock takes a long sip of his tea. "There is one thing I don't understand, though."

John is quiet for more than a moment. It had been an important case. The first of so many, and the first time since he'd returned to London that he finally felt useful, needed. Alive.

"What don't you understand?" he asks.

"How did Prudence know to summon a new patient for you?" Sherlock asked. "I had been quite looking forward to watching you try to extricate yourself from an inappropriate flirtation in the middle of your workplace."

Delight courses through him; John grins. "I buzzed the intercom," he says.

"No, you couldn't have done. You never left the doorway," Sherlock says. "The buzzers are near the windows in all the examination rooms, because the desks are in front of each window and you need to be able to reach it from your desk."

"I buzzed her with my mobile," John says. "It was in my pocket."

"Oh," Sherlock says, "... interesting. You'll have to show me how you can do that."

To John, it feels a little bit like triumph.

 

~*~

 

The rain is coming down in buckets and John can barely see in front of him as he walks quickly down the street to the surgery. He had been caught unaware this morning, even after Sherlock looked him up and down before he left and said, "That's what you're wearing?"

John had been a bit perturbed by the entire exchange and left without really taking the three extra steps to think backwards from what _most_ people mean when they ask a question to the non-obvious and somewhat tangential (most often what Sherlock means).

Well, he hadn't done that.

Now he's caught in a sudden, bloody rainstorm without his sodding raincoat. Lovely.

He passes the newsstand and notices there's a new attendant. Generally it's a rather fit young woman who, six weeks ago, commented favourably on John's light jacket -- said it brought out the colour of his eyes -- and now he wears it most days. He nods the attendant, who winks at him. Smiling back, John presses for the walk signal with two fingers and glances at the other passersby. After the signal changes, John heads across the street glancing once back at the newsstand and catching the attendant eyeing his arse.

John feels a rush of warmth and thinks maybe he ought to come back on his lunch break and pick up the latest copy of _HELLO!_ (for Mrs. Hudson).

Yeah. He'll definitely do that.

 

~*~

 

Time drags on like that for a five year old waiting for Christmas morning, and when John finds himself glancing at the clock more than twice in one minute, he remembers back to his interview for this position with Sarah when she told him that it might be a little boring.

While it isn't completely accurate, Sarah was definitely not lying.

He's also rather convinced that after he rebuffed the advances of Tina (the temporary nurse) she deliberately talked Prudence into giving him the most mundane cases. John almost longs for a message from Sherlock, demanding his presence for sending a text or retrieving the fourteen test tubes of an unknown substance (which John strongly suspects to be breast milk) that he left congealing in the bathtub last Thursday.

John makes a few notes on his chart, then doodles on a scrap of paper at the side of his desk. He isn't quite ready to punch the intercom for a new patient if this morning was any indication. Three coughs, two headaches, and a hangnail. It's almost the start of a really bad pop song.

He frowns down at the doodle (a conglomeration of numbers and letters twisted up together) and curses his own bizarre and dual natured ability to throw caution to the wind at any moment when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, but be completely incapable of a moment of abandon when it comes to actually getting a legitimate shag.

Legitimate being a relatively loose term in this case. Tina was drop to your feet and pray to the gods gorgeous. She was probably a complete animal in bed. But she also rather scared the piss out of him, if he were completely honest. Something about the long, dark red nails that matched her ridiculously red hair and the predatory way she looked up and down his body as though she were considering which of his organs might make a fine meal was rather a bit off-putting.

Though, there were a few internal organs that he might be willing to part with in exchange for a mind-blowing shag or two. John's just not too keen on having to thread a needle and administer stitches to his lower abdomen in a post-orgasmic haze.

 

~*~

 

With fifteen minutes left in his shift, John finishes up a few last minute notes and makes sure he knows when he's working next. He straightens up the top of the desk for the doctor who's got the next shift. _Doctor Marvel_. Rather aptly named, John thinks; the bloke is far too pleased with his own abilities -- oh, how John longs for an opportunity for Sherlock to put him solidly in his place.

Someone knocks and John calls them in, feeling slightly uneasy when he sees Tina. There's something unreadable in her eyes, a fierce aura that glows around her.

"Doctor Watson," she says, carrying a box and a clipboard. The door shuts with a whoosh behind her. "These were just delivered and Doctor Farrell is in with another patient -- can you sign for them?"

"What are they?"

"Vaccines, I believe."

"We've just had a fresh supply recently," John says, frowning. He's certain of it.

"But with the outbreak..." Tina says, her voice lowering.

"Ahh, yes. Alright then." John takes the pen and signs, reaching for the box, but Tina pulls it out of his grasp.

"I'll take care of it, Doctor; you've enough on your plate already."

She shifts and John's mouth dries. He can see her bra peeking out from the top of her uniform: purple, lacy and suggestive. He glances at her breasts and swallows. Not too large; he could fit each perfectly into the palm of his hand, using his fingertips to...

Christ.

Shaking his head, John rises from his chair and intercepts her at the door. "Tina," he says, looking directly up into her eyes. "It's my job. I've got it."

She opens her mouth to argue, but her eyelids soften and she looks down at his lips, then back up to his eyes.

"Are you sure?" she says, her voice a suggestive purr. She takes a step toward him, breathing fruity breath all around him. John can feel his body tighten.

"I don't mind," she continues, "Doctor. Really, if there's anything I can _do_ for you..."

She's still staring at his mouth. John wets his lips and takes a slow breath. He _could_. He could cup her arse, lift her up, and press her hard against the door while she gasped into his ear. It would be so easy...

John blinks more than once, guides his mind back into more professional thought paths and gives her a small smile.

"I've got it, Tina. You can go now, thank you."

He sees her glance at the clock, then down to his lips one last time.

"Alright, _Doctor,_ " she whispers (and John has no idea if he's ever heard that word sound so dirty), "if you're certain."

"Quite certain."

John doesn't watch her walk out, but lays the box on the desk and examines the label. He slides a finger under the adhesive and opens the box to examine the contents. He's positive they've no need of any new vaccine; one of the other doctors logged in a new supply last week. Frowning, John looks down at the small packaged vials, then up at the open doorway for a long moment. He takes a deep breath and tries to let his mind settle.

Then, of course, the fire alarm sounds.

It pierces his eardrum and he starts badly, almost knocking over the box. But his years as a soldier trained him well and he recovers instantly. John's out of the examination room before he's finished thinking. He guides frightened children and other patients out the front door.

But there's something wrong; he knows it.

 

~*~

 

The sun peeks through dissolving clouds as people huddle on the street, voices carrying over the din of the crowd. John stands to the side, straddling a puddle and mentally tallying and categorizing the people waiting outside. While he's accounted for nearly everyone he can think of, concern tickles the edges of his mind; he's redone the count six times now.

He glances around: apart from the crowd of people and the screech of the approaching siren, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Taxicabs and cars rush past, adverts overuse exclamation marks to sell the latest products, people stop to buy magazines at the newsstand. John watches the attendant at the newsstand. He's favouring his right hand; it's tucked in his pocket while he uses his left to accept money and give change and then bag purchases. Curious. Every movement is fluid in its awkwardness, which must be why it caught his eye in the first place. John wonders why he keeps glancing across toward John's side of the street, so he turns his attention back to the people still waiting outside the surgery.

A blonde huddles near the side of the building, hastily rearranging something inside a familiar satchel. John watches her for a moment, his curiosity piqued. She appears to be generally confident, but with a definite air of necessity surrounding her. The sleeve of her top slides off her shoulder in a flash of purple lace before she pulls the sleeve back up.

The purple swirls into his mind for a moment; it feels significant. John looks around again. His mind feels foggy, as though the answer is standing right at the edge of his peripheral vision, but he can't quite reach it. His eyes alight on the newsstand attendant, still assisting customers but with his attention across the street. John watches him reach for something with his right hand, flinch, and draw back as if in pain, and, and...

Last night. The kitchen. Sherlock grabbing a pot off the stove without an oven mitt, his eyes watering in pain. Then: running water and a bandage. John's admonishments about bloody hot things and second degree burns and you're lucky you live with a doctor, you bloody idiot. Then a muttered diatribe about how most humans learn not to grab for hot things when they're four years old and don't have to rely on forty-one year old doctors to teach them. And Sherlock oddly quiet through the entire ordeal.

Sherlock.

Everything swirls in his mind: purple and red and hot and heady, all together.

John looks up to see a whirl of ridiculous red as the blonde tries to tuck something back into her satchel against the breeze. It all clicks together, almost audibly, and John knows.

He _knows._

The blonde -- Tina! -- catches his eye and drops her gaze just as quickly, then turns and hurries away, her satchel banging at her hip as she moves.

"Sherlock!" he calls across the street, then leaps across the puddle and takes off in pursuit of Tina.

 

~*~

 

Hours later, Sherlock has finally extricated them from the exhaustive questioning and they've returned home and ordered far too much takeaway for two people. John's ravenous; he can't remember if he ate lunch or not, and Sherlock always eats like an adolescent boy after a case. Their chase had taken them on quite a tour of the back streets of Central London; it was about time they finally got some food. They eat in silence for a few minutes. John is still pleased with himself for actually figuring out that Tina was one of the couriers of the virus, and Sherlock stops eating every few minutes to beam at him.

John polishes off the beef with broccoli, licks his fingers, and sits back with a contented sigh. "Food," he says, "definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."

Sherlock looks at him curiously. "Invention? John, people didn't invent food. It already existed. Eating is a biological necessity."

John rolls his eyes. "Alright, then, biological stickler." He thinks for a moment while Sherlock awkwardly uses his left hand to tear into a container of chicken with cashew nuts. "Alright, how about this: making food _taste good_. Definitely one of the better inventions of modern times."

Sherlock makes a small noise of pleasure at his first bite and smiles at John. "Alright. I'll give you that one, then."

"Seriously. How would you like to be sitting around a raw deer carcass, ripping flesh from the bones right now instead of licking brown sauce off our fingers and then having a bloody shower?"

Silence looms for a moment and John's mind just cracks open with it. He swallows. A mental image of just that -- Sherlock pressed against him in the shower: wet, pliant, and gasping -- fills his mind and he takes a low, shallow breath. He can feel his cheeks heat and he looks down for a moment.

"Sherlock, I ... I didn't mean--"

"How did you know it was Tina, John?"

"What?"

"How did you know to follow her?"

"Oh. Well, I--" he thinks for a minute. "It was a lot of things, actually."

"What do you remember?"

"Well, the first, I reckon, was that she just gave me an odd feeling."

Sherlock frowns.

John grins inwardly; he failed that one. Sherlock doesn't put stock in feelings. But, then... what would _Sherlock_ do? He would detail all of the little pieces, the facts, then bind them together into a logical deduction. But, John reasons to himself, isn't that what his initial feeling was most likely based upon? Observations, little facts that he noticed, which his brain put together and he recognized as a gut feeling. That's what people do all the time. Sherlock just knows how to slow it all down: take it piece by piece and recognize each single step.

"Okay, hang on, then." John starts ticking things off on his fingers. "Her eyes never stayed in one place when she spoke to me... her eyebrows were too light for her hair... she hit on me far too often--"

Sherlock snorts. John's tempted to pull his tongue, but he's not, in fact, nine years old, so he resists the urge and simply looks at him and shakes his head.

"Also... we weren't in need a new supply of vaccine, so we shouldn't have got one in the first place. The address on the box was from a supplier in _West_ London, and we always get our supply from the one in South... well, and the--" this sounds silly, even to his own ears, "--the vials were in packs of five across, and I know that our supplier always sends them in packs of four."

"Go on." Sherlock is watching him with a bemused expression.

"And outside. Well, you were there, Sherlock, you saw her. I noticed her first as the blonde by the building because she was striking, but then I saw the strap of her bra, which was the same colour Tina was wearing, and she was looking around like she was nervous... then there was a flash of red from her satchel that clinched it. It had to be a wig. It had to be Tina."

"You're _learning_ ," Sherlock says. John goes warm with pride.

Something else occurs to him. "Wait, well _you_ were there, too. I think that was my biggest clue. I wouldn't have gone after her if you weren't there."

"My presence clued you in that I was looking for something. Or someone."

John nods. "I knew you were working on the outbreak case. It all happened really fast, now that I think about it. I saw you favouring your left hand and flinch when you touched something with your right." He looks pointedly at the bandage that he made Sherlock sit still for as soon as they'd returned to Baker Street.

"Then all the things I'd been noticing about Tina all blurred together and I realised that she must be the one you were looking for."

"Apparently even when someone flirts with you, you don't lose all your powers of deduction."

" _What?_ "

"Emotions, John." Sherlock speaks slowly. "They can get in the way of reasoning, of logic, of simple, plain facts. Case in point: as soon as I winked at you when you passed the newsstand this morning your behaviours changed."

John's fascinated. He thinks back to the wet morning walk and doesn't recall anything out of the ordinary.

"You're a doctor, John. You're well aware of germs: you always touch the signal with the back of your hand or your wrist, but you touched it with the pads of your fingers. Germs. You didn't look more than one direction before stepping out into the street and you looked back to see if the attendant was looking at your arse."

"To see if _you_ were looking at my arse," John corrects.

"But you didn't know it was me. For all intents and purposes I was a twenty-eight year old failed musician who was working the newsstand to make money. But you're a soldier, John. You're used to scanning with your eyes, knowing everything in your surroundings, but that changes when your emotions come into it."

And that's it, right there. John wonders if that is why Sherlock's been disguising himself, planting himself in places John is sure to go, to test the theory that emotions change behaviour. But, no... that doesn't quite follow. Sherlock would already know the answer to that. He would have explored that theory long ago. No, there has to be another reason for all of Sherlock's disguises. He's so far evaded all of John's efforts to find out.

Which makes John all the more determined.

 

~*~

 

Three times during the next week John catches out Sherlock's disguise.

The first is in a cab on the way to visit Harry. He's not really focused on anything: looking out the window without really seeing anything. Weariness fogs his eyes, he'd been up late helping Sherlock find an obscure passage in an old Jane Austen novel (naturally Sherlock was little help in that endeavour) to answer a puzzle from the forums of Sherlock's website. Why John agreed to that with an early morning shift looming he has no idea, but John's long accepted that he has almost no willpower when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

"Long day, then?"

John's startled out of his trance and glances up into the rear-view mirror.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said: has it been a long day? You look exhausted." The cabbie's eyes wrinkle at the corners as she smiles at him. Her eyes are lovely: light and wide, and with a dark brown lining her eyelids. She looks back at the road.

"I am, yeah." He remembers his manners. "Thanks for asking. And ... how's your day been?"

"Ahh, you know how it is," she says. "Driving around London, avoiding reckless pedestrians with a death wish and looking for a fit bloke who needs a cab." She flicks two fingers up at the car that swerves in front of her, then deftly manoeuvres around it.

"Shall I help you look for one, then?"

The cab pulls to a stop at an intersection and she captures his gaze in the mirror again. "No need. Already got one."

John smiles widely.

"Then I shall endeavour to make it worth your while."

"It already is."

It's another six minutes before John gets that little prickle inside his mind, the sense that there's something he's not seeing. He's just been regaling the cabbie with tales of some of the more peculiar aspects of being a soldier in the middle of the desert (particularly: sand in, um, interesting places). She has the most uncharacteristic low laugh. Somehow it gets under his skin, fills his blood and rushes through him until he's breathless.

Images, memories, flood his mind and John sucks his breath in recognition.

"... Sherlock?"

So far he's never been wrong.

There's a long, measured silence, then: "Was it the laugh, then?"

John considers that. "It was definitely the laugh, but--" he can't put his finger on it. "There's something else. I don't even know if _I_ know what it is."

It's that sense he gets. That feeling that everything is unbalanced and exciting and new, and it's not quantifiable somehow. There's no scientific explanation that John can find, he can't define it. And, maybe... well, maybe he's not really ready to try.

Sherlock looks at John in the rearview mirror and says, "We're nearly there."

"Thanks." Then he looks out the window and another thought occurs to him. "Sherlock, I didn't know you knew how to drive."

"Of course I know how to drive."

"It seems like something that would be ... I dunno, beneath you."

"John, I assure you that knowing how to drive a car is a very useful skill for someone who wishes to learn about people unobserved."

There is that. "Yeah, alright then," John concedes. "Still surprising, though."

Sherlock frowns at the line of cars stretched out end to end in front of them as the cab slows to a stop.

"I just never bothered learning how to park."

John throws back his head and laughs.

 

~*~

 

The next disguise assaults him in the shop. Well... assault is a strong word, because Sherlock-in-disguise doesn't assault him, per se, but it's an assault on the senses, that's for damn sure. Or at least the imagination.

He's holding a shopping basket filled with essentials (milk, beans, eggs, sugar, and 14 tubes of haemorrhoid cream that Sherlock wants for some bizarre research) and he's got his mind in a general state of contentment that's rather a nice change for the moment.

The shop is pleasantly humming with activity. It's mid-afternoon, so a few lanes are open, several customers bagging groceries, but well spread out, and John's enjoying the everyday monotony of it.

A sudden, but not painful, bump startles him and John turns to look behind him.

The customer is a taller man, in his early fifties or so, and handsome. He's got dark hair, peppered heavily with grey, and it suits him. He's wearing a long sleeved, thin jumper, tight across his chest, and the slightest hint of a belly. He reminds John of DI Lestrade, and John smiles at the man when he apologises.

"Sorry for that, mate. Must not know me own strength."

John grins wider, looks down at his own smaller frame, and says, "Can't say I've confronted that problem myself very often."

The man grins, his eyes almost disappearing.

"I'm John."

"Will."

"Well, Will, best keep your eye on those less fortunately endowed than yourself."

"Will do, John."

John glances idly down into Will's cart, then at the customer in front of him just swiping her card. He shifts the basket up to his elbow and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. Something itches the back of his mind and he looks back into Will's cart.

 _kumquats, limburger cheese, tinned beets, raw peanuts_

That's strange.

"Something wrong?" Will looks curiously at him.

"No, I--" he falters. "You just have a very unique selection of food in your cart."

"I'm a unique bloke," Will says, smiling slowly.

John runs through the list in his mind again. Kumquats -- Harry had pelted him with them when he was four and she was nine, and he's never eaten another since. Limburger cheese just smells foul; John would never eat it. Tinned beets are about the only vegetable in the world that make him gag. The peanuts, well, John's never got it tested, but he suspects that he has a very mild peanut allergy.

John is a remarkably un-picky eater. Those are almost quite literally the _only_ four foods that he avoids. So for someone to have that exact selection in their cart -- as the only items in the cart -- in the middle of the day, when he's on the way home from his shift...

Snorting a laugh, he looks back up and shakes his head.

"Caught on, have you?" Sherlock smiles at him; John can see that the telltale crinkles at the edges of Sherlock's eyes have been heavily emphasized, but the disguise is almost flawless.

He looks at Sherlock and rolls his eyes.

"It's like you're not even trying anymore."

~*~

 

The third time, well, John doesn't really 'make' Sherlock in the disguise, so much as 'watch him walk down the stairs in it.' But it still counts.

John walks out of the kitchen holding a cup of tea and watches a tanned, spandex-short-and-trainer-clad Adonis walk down the stairs and grin toothily at him. The uniform is clearly from the gym down the street. John's never been inside, but he's ogled -- no, _observed_ \-- many a stunning pair of legs walking out. The blue really highlights Sherlock's eyes, and the tan emphasizes the shape of the muscles in his legs. His hair is a sandy-blond and he pierces John's eyes with his own and says, with a faint trace of Irish in it: "Hi."

John swallows. Christ. He takes a full breath and doesn't break the gaze.

"Sherlock," he says, "you do realize that it fully defeats the purpose of trying to fool me with a disguise when you _walk down the stairs in our flat_ wearing it."

"Of course, John," Sherlock says. "Obviously this disguise isn't for you. I'm working on skin colouring and other body enhancements."

"Obviously. What a fool I am."

"It's not your fault, John." Sherlock cranes his neck to look back over his shoulder. He turns and tries to look over the other shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock turns his back to him. "How does my arse look in these... these-- what do you call them? These ridiculous shorts? I can't believe anyone wears them and can be taken seriously."

"Spandex? Yeah, that's what people wear. And, yeah, it looks fine."

"You didn't look."

"Sherlock. Of course I did. You're wearing practically nothing. I looked."

"Right. Yes, obviously I know that. I mean: does it look like I might be a personal trainer? Do I need to do anything to make my arse more... sculpted?"

John rolls his eyes and wonders, for perhaps the thousandth time, if someone in the world is actually toying with him: putting him in absurd situations on purpose and laughing at him from above. He can't believe they're having this conversation.

But he looks anyway.

"Sherlock. Your arse is fine."

"Just fine? I've got some ballistics gel moulds upstairs that I can slip into the shorts if I need to make it look more pert."

" _Pert?_ "

"Pert, yes. 'Lively, spritely, in good health.' You've heard the word before, one would think."

"Yes. Yes, of course, just--" sometimes John thinks he should just keep his mouth shut "... just not in relation to my flatmate's buttocks and with an academic consideration thereof."

But Sherlock isn't listening. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet, rolling his neck, and clenching and unclenching his fists.

John moves to the chair, setting his tea down and reaching for the newspaper. He's not had the chance to sit for... for the last few days, actually. "Have fun, then," he says.

"Why would you say that?"

"It seemed polite."

"But you're coming."

"To the gym?" John takes a sip of his tea and tries to think what on earth Sherlock might need him to do at a gym. He's a doctor, so perhaps observe fitness levels, blood pressure, something along those lines.

"Yes, of course. After you change." Sherlock looks at him expectantly. "Your uniform is upstairs. Off you go."

John chokes on his tea.

"You want me to wear ... that? In _public_?"

"Of course, John. How else will we be able to observe the entirety of the gym area?"

John takes a breath, bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. Because he is actually, truly considering this. God help him. Pressing his hands to his thighs, John stands up and looks at Sherlock.

"Alright then. Uniform is upstairs. I assume the requisite ballistics gel moulds for the shorts are up there as well?"

"You don't need them, John. Your arse is well shaped without them."

"... er, thank you."

Sherlock looks at him in surprise. "Why are you thanking me?"

"Never mind." John grins to himself. He takes the stairs two at a time. Upstairs, he pulls off his shirt and unfastens his trousers, humming quietly. The uniform is going to look ridiculous on him; there will probably be some unexpected fiasco they'll have to either solve or run from, and most likely, John won't get dinner until sometime far past eleven-thirty.

And yet, he doesn't care.

Because -- and not for the first time since returning from Afghanistan -- John Watson truly _likes_ his life.

 

~*~

 

John whistles to himself as he moves around the kitchen, putting away dishes and taking great pleasure in binning various leftover experiments that Sherlock's long abandoned.

Even though he's had maybe four hours of sleep, John feels great. His muscles are pleasantly sentient of their excursion last night and he's well aware that he's got a stupid grin on his face.

The kettle's just started boiling when John hears Sherlock's footsteps moving from his bedroom to the loo. He pours water into two cups and starts fixing them each a cup of tea.

"I've got a cuppa for you," he calls when he hears Sherlock's footsteps. "I wasn't sure when you'd be getting up, but I heard you coming and deduced that you'd want one."

"How maddeningly clever you are," Sherlock drawls.

"Just one of the perks of living with a reclusive genius," John says. He picks up the teacups and turns to face Sherlock in the doorway. "I'm on two shifts today, so I won't be back until--"

John's blood runs to ice. Both cups slip from his hand and crash to the floor.

It's not Sherlock in the doorway. It's someone else. Someone John hasn't seen in a long time. And yet... Sherlock is under there, looking at John blankly. The warm smile slides off his face.

"I'm sorry?"

"You're the--" John's anger is a white storm inside him. That face. That smile. That long, tangled hair. And god, all those _words, words, words_ that he'd tried so hard to forget. It's been so long -- so bloody long -- but it all comes rushing back. Rushing back and crowding into his mind with memories, wishes, desires ... all dashed in the blink of an eye. John's vision starts to tunnel and he can barely see anything but the imposter in front of him. He has to -- _needs to_ \-- get out of here.

"John? What is it?"

John won't look at him, can't look at him. It's all been a lie. A fucking lie. All those years and now it's happening all over again.

"I can't do this," John says. He moves past the man in the doorway, his skin crawling, and walks out. Leaves everything behind.

 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

John is more than preoccupied during his entire shift.

Even walking the entire way to the surgery wasn't enough. Recently he's been splurging on cabs more often than not, but his mind had been churning so viciously as he walked out of their flat that he knew that he would bite someone's head off if he didn't find a way to calm himself down.

Sarah waves at him as he comes in. John can do little more than nod at her, escaping to the examination room and brewing a stiff cup of tea, then discarding it in anger.

The first patient he sees (a young woman, clearly at Uni) is for nothing more complicated than a shot, but his mind feels foggy throughout the entire consultation. Twice the woman rouses him from his reverie with a gentle: "Doctor?" as he's poised mid-injection. Once he finds himself poised with the needle dangerously close to her chin. That won't do. At all.

He is able to focus just enough to administer the shot, make some notes on her chart, offer a falsely cheerful pleasantry or two, and send her off to Prudence with a note that he needs a few minutes to call the lab for some other patient's results.

As the woman (he can't remember her name) walks out, the sharp ginger of her hair swirls in his vision and his mind closes in on itself, blocking out everything but John's belaboured thoughts.

 

 **November 1992 -- Wild Things**

 

John dances with abandon in the middle of the dance floor. He's out with a few mates from medical school, having (a lot of) drinks and letting off some much-deserved steam. They've just finished dissecting an entire cadaver; John can name each muscle, bone, and nerve, and it's high time he got well and truly pissed.

As the night wears on, his mates beg off one by one, but John's not tired, not interested in going back to his small, cramped flat and waking up back to the reality of medicine. No, John needs tonight. He needs to let loose, forget about life, school, reality, and just pretend for a night that he's a normal bloke with a normal life. Not a scholarship student with a drunk for an older sister and an orphan, to boot.

He feels eyes on him and turns around, his face heating when he catches the eye of a bloke over by the bar. He's tall, ginger, and very lean. His legs seem to go on forever. His nose is sharp, and his hair is very clearly full of product to make it curl and fall so attractively. John can feel the man's gaze travel up his body, stopping at his waist, then chest, before he looks back into John's eyes and smiles. The smile is what does it -- it's almost shy, as though he didn't mean to be caught checking John out so obviously.

John must be drunk, must be out of his mind, because (bloody hell) he can feel his body start to respond. Warmth spreads through him, fills his head, and he looks around for a moment.

He looks back up at the bloke across the room, the coloured lighting of the nightclub painting his hair. The bloke smiles at him, lifts his drink.

Why the bloody hell not?

John nods at him, then crosses the room deliberately.

 

~*~

 

The buzzer sounds, startling John; he blinks rapidly. He hasn't thought about that in years. Not since ... well, not since everything went to hell following that night.

He yawns, for want of something better to do, scrubs his hands over his eyes, and digs the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

"Get a bloody grip," he whispers to himself, then answers the buzzer.

Two hours later, he's on his fifth patient and counting down the hours left in this shift. His concentration is shit and he can't remember a single detail about any of the people he's seen all morning.

"... so, I've this rash on -- on my, er, down there." The man (what was his name?) sitting on the table goes red and gestures toward his crotch. "It's -- I've had it a while now, and I just --" He looks at John, his eyes almost pleading.

"It's all right, Mr--" what was his name? "Mr... uh--"

" ... Tyler."

John tries to smile. "I'll have a look and we'll get you fixed up, Mr Tyler." He gestures to the folded garment laying on the edge of the table. "Go ahead and remove your trousers and pants, let the gown open in back, and I'll be back in a moment to examine you."

He steps out of the examination room, pulls the door shut, and leans against the wall. Today is really not his best day.

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992 -- Wild Things**

 

It doesn't take them long. Not long at all.

One drink, then a brief but dizzying snog in the loo, and John follows Brad home without a second thought. His mind is helplessly blank and he can't take his eyes off Brad's body as he walks. John thinks he must be a dancer, or at least a performer of some kind, because he is unreasonably fluid with every movement, even walking up the bloody stairs.

Once they're inside, Brad crowds John back against the door, sliding his hands under John's tee shirt and licking a slow, sexy line at the edge of John's jaw. "God, you're lovely," he whispers, his lips a maddening tease at John's ear, "compact and smart, and perfect to unwrap."

John's stomach flips dangerously. It's been a long time since he's got off with anyone, but with every push of Brad's body against John's, it's impossibly difficult to forget that he's actually doing this with a man.

Brad has got to be younger than John -- how is he so fine with this? But then he swoops his body against John's in a slow wave: _knees thighs groin stomach chest_ and John ... John just -- god, he wants this, his mind be damned. Fuck it, he thinks, fuck it all. Brad's teeth score his neck and John hears himself gasp, and then-- then, he just lets go.

 

~*~

 

John empties his pockets of crumpled prescription pad papers, sweets wrappers, and four pens that clearly must have multiplied as he's quite sure he's only used one or two today at most. It takes far longer than it ought to, but his mind feels like it's an old computer running far too many programs at once, sluggish and unresponsive to even the simplest things.

Sarah walks down the hallway with a chart in her hand. "John? Did you order flucloxacillin for Mrs. Vintner?"

John has to think about that for a long moment. Vintner... was it the older woman? Or the thirty-two year old?

"Which one was she, then?" John wonders aloud. "'Cat lady?' Or 'afraid of sex?'"

Sarah looks at him like his mother used to just before she would use her 'I'm extremely disappointed in you, John' voice. She frowns but says nothing, simply looking down at the chart. "Caucasian female," she reads. "Early 60's."

John pauses a moment, dragging his fingertips over the edges of his jumper and digging them into his pockets. He's blanking on the exact result of her exam. It was--

"I'm sure that's right, yeah."

"Did you read her chart?"

"Of course I read her chart."

"John." Sarah's voice goes dangerously low. "You ordered flucloxacillin for a woman over the age of sixty who has a history of penicillin allergies."

John's heart drops. He looks at the orders on the chart: his own jerky handwriting, then skims over the medical history in her file. Sarah's right. He'd ordered it for her skin infection without even thinking, without even checking her chart.

"I can't have done," he whispers.

Sarah looks at him with concern. There's a small wrinkle between her eyebrows that he doesn't see very often, only when she's very worried. Sarah is not a worrier.

"John. Are you alright?"

John's mind races with possibilities. Had Sarah not caught this, Mrs. Vintner might have gone into shock and possibly died. John could have been responsible for the death of one of their patients, and all for a stupid, first year medical student oversight.

"I'm fine. Thanks for catching that. I don't know how I missed it."

The wrinkle between Sarah's eyebrows deepens. She asks again, "Are you alright, John?"

"I'm fine, Sarah. I am."

His heart won't stop racing.

 

~*~

 

 **December 1992 -- Southeast London**

 

John wakes up with a start, rubbing his eyes and groaning at himself when he feels the puddle of drool soaking his pillowcase. The sunlight shining through his window is bright. So bright. Too bright.

Bloody fucking hell.

He sits up in bed and blinks at the clock. He's late. Late again, and, god, this time he might not be able to talk his way out of it. He rolls out of bed and stumbles around the room, grabbing trousers and tee shirts and sniffing them until he finds one that smells less offensive than the others, and pulls them on as he looks wildly around the tiny flat for his satchel.

When he finds it, he tears out of the flat and heads to Saint Bart's. It takes a full five minutes before he realizes that he's got no shoes on.

 

~*~

 

John stands in the middle of the empty examination room with his hands clenched. Every time he relaxes them they start to shake. And not in any of that 'intermittent tremor' shit that his therapist likes to talk about. Full on, teeth-rattling, actual shakes of his hand. John wants to throw things. He wants to beat his fists into the wall, render every piece of furniture in the room useless, and howl out his rage. He wants to throttle Sherlock, tear the bloody disguise in pieces from his body and push him... punch him, shout at him, shake him until he's merely normal and ask _whywhywhywhywhy?_

Rage continues to fill him, gets under his skin and bursts out. John's skin is fire, and he's actually surprised when he looks down and doesn't see charred flesh.

The door opens and Sarah comes in, holding a chart. He takes a long, low breath and presses his lips together for a moment before he can open his mouth.

"How is Mrs. Vintner?"

"She's fine. Nothing permanent, John."

John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He wants to ask if she's sacking him. He wants to apologise for his negligence, should offer his resignation, but he can't open his mouth. He can't stop the fear growing inside him that today is the day he's about to lose everything.

Again.

"John." Sarah's voice is quiet. He doesn't look at her. "John, are you alright?"

"Fine."

" _John._ " Sarah tries again. "Is there something you want to talk about? Something going on?"

He doesn't say anything. He can't. What _would_ he say? 'Oh, it's nothing, just I saw the first bloke I ever shagged again today and, whoa ... as it turns out, it's my flatmate, and he's just been toying with me all this bloody time. Or maybe: 'Yeah, no worries, Sarah. Just had a flashback to something I thought was an amazing night from my past that ended up only being some meaningless shag, completely did my head in enough that it nearly cost me medical school and my scholarship -- which I tried for years to forget -- and oh, by the way, it was Sherlock and now I want to hurt things.'

"Are we done?" he asks, gestures to the stack of charts on the desk. "... paperwork, yeah?"

She looks at him for a long moment and takes a deep, obvious breath.

"Alright, yeah, paperwork. Don't come in tomorrow, John--" she looks at him sharply, but her eyes are soft. "Take a day or two, please."

His throat tightens. "Alright, yeah. Sarah, thanks."

John watches her as she leaves. He doesn't deserve her kindness.

 

~*~

 

John walks out of the surgery, his mind numb, definitely worse for the wear. He looks back through the doorway and sees Prudence frowning at a patient, then glances across the street at the newsstand and he sighs.

Everywhere.

On the next block is the coffee shop where he first met Sherlock as 'Kate;' behind him is the street where he and Sherlock chased Tina during the phony vaccine case. He can't go home because Sherlock will be there, can't go to the market because he'll remember their laughter after John figured out Sherlock's disguise in the grocery line. He can't go to the newsstand, the surgery, the laundromat, the fitness centre; he can't even catch a cab. Because everything... everything is Sherlock.

Fucking hell.

So he does what everyone in his bloody family has done when things become far too much to handle all at once.

He goes to the pub.

 

~*~

 

It's loud, noisy, and crowded. It's exactly what John needs right now. He reckons it's too loud to think in here, or rather, he _hopes_ it's too loud to think in here. Thinking is not always John's very best endeavour.

After ordering a pint, John glances around while he waits for it. There's a rugby match on the telly and three tables of patrons avidly cheering on various players. One of the men is clearly not interested in the goings on, but is trying to appear that way to his mates. Across the way there are a couple of groups of Uni students, celebrating exams and flirting heavily with each other; John thinks he can see one bloke with his hand on two different arses.

John shakes his head. He was never that bloke.

The bartender hands him his pint and John drops coins onto the bar, nodding at him in thanks. He spies a table in the far corner, with a single chair, crammed into a tiny space. It's perfect. He makes his way over to the table and huffs his breath as he sits down. In a short moment he's drunk almost half his pint, then sits back and shuts his eyes for a long moment, savouring the yeasty tang on his tongue.

Nectar of the bloody gods.

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

"Oh god."

John is going to come. John is going to come from a (fucking unbelievable) blow job and it's only been four minutes. John is going to come and possibly cry from the pleasure of it. Brad pulls off his cock for a minute, looking up at John as he lazily teases the glans with the tip of his tongue, and somehow manages to grin wryly.

"Christ," John gasps out. "You're really bloody good at that."

"You've no idea."

"No, I really do. So fucking good."

Brad slides up his body, stopping to lick at various sensitive places that John has never found erotic before (his inner elbow? That shouldn't make him any harder than he is -- but, _god_ , it does) and pressing his long, lithe body against John's. They rock against each other -- once, twice -- and John thinks he might possibly die from all of the sensation.

"Fucking _hell_ ," he breathes, grabbing Brad's arse and planting one of his feet flat on the bed so he can keep pushing upward, again and again and again. John reaches up and grabs Brad's neck, pulling their faces together and pressing his tongue into Brad's mouth.

They're sweaty and (oh god) naked and John has never been so content as to want to kiss someone for the next hundred thousand days or so, but he does. He _does_. John tastes the corners of Brad's mouth, touches his teeth, sucks his tongue. He curls his hand around the base of Brad's skull and shuts his eyes to memorize everything.

"John, _god_. I--" Brad's mouth is still touching his. He can feel the vibrations and the air at the same time. John breathes the words in; he wants to keep them deep inside. Opening his eyes, he looks into the dark brown of Brad's and holds his gaze. He slides his hips upward, feels Brad's gasp before he hears it, does it again.

"Like that?" he whispers against Brad's lips.

"I like _you_ ," Brad breathes back against him.

And John feels like he might break apart.

 

~*~

 

John blinks and looks around the pub. He's nearly done with his second pint, but not nearly ready to leave, so he signals one of the barmaids for another and stretches his hand, rolling his fingers and flexing them inward and out.

Movement catches his eye and he turns automatically. The bloke he'd noticed before, the one barely watching the match, is looking at him. John nods, smiles, then glances away. When John looks back a few moments later he's still looking. John feels his cheeks heat with pleasure, then his stomach drops.

It's probably Sherlock. In another bloody disguise, flirting with John to make him think that someone might be legitimately interested in him, only to dash that adrenaline rush to the ground all over again.

John frowns, looks away. Sometimes reality is far worse than he likes to remember.

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

 

Brad licks his way across John's neck, scrapes his bottom teeth against John's skin and makes him gasp, then he moves back and sits on his heels between John's open legs. He splays his hands just above John's knees, then slides them upward, carefully moving over John's inner thighs like a blind man might learn Braille.

John gasps out something that might be words; Brad's hands are teasing him right on the far edge of tickling and he's not sure if any words have managed to stay inside his head at this point.

When Brad gets to the top of John's thighs he slides around to his buttocks and pulls his hips upward, leaning down to kiss his stomach ... over and over.

"Christ. Christ, oh, Christ, _Brad._ "

John has never felt so fucking alive -- not during sport, not upon winning his scholarship, not even the (only) time he tried cocaine. God, he wants this. He wants this so badly and he's not even drunk anymore. He wants night after night of falling into bed with someone who wants him, who will listen to the horror stories of dissection and recitation and evil, vindictive professors. John wants to learn every inch of Brad's body, commit it to memory. He wants this every day: Brad to look at him this way, to gasp his name like he does, to touch him so reverently.

With a quick manoeuvre, John wriggles out of Brad's grasp, then presses him back so his head is at the foot of the bed, and covers his body with his own. John rubs his chin, his face over the entirety of Brad's body, slipping his tongue out every few moments to taste an errant patch of warmth, and breathing in fragrant skin. He catches Brad's wrists and lifts them overhead, pinning them with one hand. Kissing down the underskin of Brad's arm, John can feel Brad writhe against him, buck upward, cry out his name. He gets to the cave of hair of Brad's underarm and inhales. It's a strong scent: warm and very male. His mouth all but waters. John traces the edge of his underarm with his tongue. It's sharp, but not at all unpleasant, and the noises Brad keeps making are going in a direct line to John's cock.

"John ... John ... John."

His name has never sounded so sexually charged before, so much like poetry. Brad writhes next to him, arches upward and gasps with every touch of John's tongue. Every word, every grunt, every gasp is like a drop of rain on a parched summer day and John can't get enough. He presses his open mouth to Brad's underarm, teases, and licks soft lines over every inch.

"God, oh god, I ... I-- _John_."

Brad pulls his wrist out of John's grasp, curls it around him and pulls John awkwardly on top of him. John's still half on the bed; his spine is twisted uncomfortably, but when Brad crushes his mouth against John's, John can find little reason to care. He kisses back with closed eyes and dizzying thoughts, and thinks he must have done something right in his life, if he's allowed to feel like this.

 

~*~

 

This time John isn't sure what to think when the memory fades. He hasn't thought about this, hasn't _let_ himself think about it in years. Not after everything fell so utterly apart.

John feels like he's been through a wringer in the past twenty-four hours. First he and Sherlock had been out on a case, then hauled into Scotland Yard for a mistaken identity from the gym -- for the very same case -- and John had awakened this morning feeling remarkably chipper for only a few hours of sleep. Today he's pinged back and forth between anger, disgust, rage, fatigue, and loathing. He's exhausted.

He takes a sip of his lager then glances around the pub. The door opens and he watches three more patrons walk in.

And, oh, would you look at that?

Sherlock Holmes, the cause of all of this, striding in like he has a right to be here.

John doesn't look away. He's not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of knowing that, yes, in fact, it _is_ remarkably easy to get John Watson to fall for you. You just have to flirt with him, stroke his ego a few times, and oh yes, be sure to give him the shag of his life, way back when he's young and impressionable, ruin him for anyone else, and then tell him that it was all a bloody mistake.

He stares defiantly at Sherlock, not moving his gaze, waiting to be seen. He straightens his fingers, then curls them in toward his palm, once, twice.

After a moment Sherlock does see him; John can see his body freeze almost imperceptibly. His expression doesn't change, he looks John over from head to toe, nods briefly, then walks over to the bar and leans over to talk to the bartender. He hands him something -- a folded paper, perhaps -- then spins on his heel and exits the bar.

And here it is, again. John, all by himself. As per usual.

 

~*~

 

 **December 1992**

 

John sits with one leg crossed, bouncing his foot erratically, waiting. He's been sitting in the Director's office for fifteen minutes now; he's rather certain that Doctor Canterbury (Director of Medical Education) is making him wait on purpose.

Looking around, John examines the artwork: tastefully framed, well drawn, but medical shite nevertheless. Bones, muscles, freeways of blood vessels. He's always found the human body fascinating, even beautiful, but now it just annoys him.

He glances at the clock. Fuck. He's due for clinic duty and rounds in twenty minutes. John half hopes that Canterbury'll keep him too long and then he'll have a legitimate excuse for skipping.

On Canterbury's desk he can see his file. It's a lot thicker than it was, even two months ago when he had called John in to offer a bit of sympathy for Harry's alcohol poisoning that nearly cost her her life. The file is open to a page near the end. John squints, he can just make out some of it.

> _As of yesterday, John Watson has missed class six times since 22 November and is behind on three full assignments. He is in serious danger of failing._

He can see the signature of his supervising professor and frowns. Six classes? John scowls. He's sure it's been no more than four.

Just as he's considering flipping through his file to read more of the incriminating evidence, the door pushes open and Canterbury walks in. John stands up (politeness might do well for him here) and nods respectfully.

"Mr. Watson," he says, nodding at John to sit down and doing so himself.

"Sir."

Canterbury glances through John's file, presses his lips together and looks up at John. He pulls out a sheet of paper, turns it and slides it across the desk to John. Leaning forward, John can see it's a printout of his transcript. Two years, top marks, but with four classes in danger of failing this term.

This isn't news to him.

"Yes, sir?" he says.

"You can see it all here, son. You're a smart lad." John bristles at the endearment. He's nobody's son. He doesn't say a word.

Canterbury looks at him for a long moment, clearly waiting. "Watson. I've asked you in here so we can talk about your future here. A conversation is one in which both parties participate-- " he cuts himself off. John can see the anger in his eyes.

"What do you want me to say, sir? My marks are rubbish; I know it."

He shakes his head. "Mr. Watson -- what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"No, sir."

"So, you're telling me that you've been a model student for two years, and now you're in danger of failing and yet you cannot give me a reason why?"

"No, sir."

"I'm not sure I believe you."

John swallows. "I don't ... have a good answer." That, at least, is the truth.

Canterbury's eyes soften. "Is it your sister?"

John bristles. "Harry has nothing to do with this."

Canterbury pauses for a long moment, looking John over, then presses his hands against the arms of his chair and stands, moving around the desk to lean against the front of it.

"You're a private person; I know this. I'm not going to make you tell me anything, nor am I going to pry into parts of your life that I'm sure are none of my business." He takes a breath. "I know a bit about your situation, about what you've faced in the past few years. I empathize, I do. But..."

John's heart drops; he fears the worst. Usually, speeches like this end in really bad news that burn away a little part of his heart.

"I can only do so much. You've got a great mind; you're more than capable of doing this work. It's possible that you've just got a bit off track recently and you need a little hel-- that what you need is a new direction."

"Sir?"

"Mr. Watson, this is what I can offer you: ten days. I've intervened with your instructors and they're offering this as a personal favour to me. You have ten days to complete your missing assignments, to catch up with your coursework. You are required to show up for lessons, to participate -- basically, to be a bloody beacon of medical brilliance."

John's heart leaps; he can barely believe it. A week ago he was certain that they were going to kick him out, and now he's got a chance to fix it.

Canterbury looks very seriously at him. "But this is it, though. A doctor needs to be calm in a crisis... able to confront any challenge and meet it head on. You show me you can do this, and I'll keep you in. But--" his gaze is stern "--if you miss a single assignment, a single class, if any piece of work you turn in is sub-par, then you're out. Studying at St. Bart's is a privilege. I expect you to treat it as such."

John takes a shallow breath. "Thank you, sir. I won't ... I mean, I appr-- I mean, _thank you_."

"Yes ... well." He looks at John for a long moment, his gaze pensive. "You know, Mr. Watson, before I practiced here at Bart's I was a Senior Medical Officer in the RAMC."

John looks at him in surprise. "You were?"

"I was. It really helped me ... find a bit of myself. Just thought you might find that of interest."

John nods at him. "Thank you, sir."

"Yes. alright. Now--" he looks at the clock. "I believe you're on duty starting in five minutes. I think it's about bloody time you got the hell out of my office."

 

~*~

 

John takes the stairs two at a time. When he walks in he sees Sherlock in the armchair, reading a book. He looks John up and down, slides a bookmark into his place, and shuts the book.

And that -- even that simple action -- makes his blood boil. John clenches his fists again; presses his lips together. He's never been good going into combat with a hot head, and John's been preparing for a bloody battle all day. Of course, now with Sherlock sitting here, undisguised, looking pulled together and as calm as he always is, John's mind blanks. Where in the living hell does he even start?

"Are you planning on speaking any time soon?"

John shakes his head a bit to clear the thought-fog. "... sorry?"

"I said: 'are you planning on speaking any time soon?' You've stood there a full minute already. I was in the middle of an interesting--"

And there it is. John's anger bursts through him again.

"Shut up."

"I'm sorry?"

"Shut up, Sherlock. _Shut up._ Don't talk. Don't deduce anything. Just shut your bloody face and listen."

Sherlock cocks his head at him, blinks, but doesn't open his mouth.

"You have to stop this. You have to stop all of it. Explain to me, please Sherlock, because I don't understand. You follow me around; try to fool me in every normal facet of my life. You disguise yourself so brilliantly; no one's ever looked at you skeptically, least of all me. Every single, bloody disguise flirts with me, turns me on, and ... for _what_?"

John paces to the fireplace, comes back. "You have to explain it me, because I've been running it through my head all day, Sherlock, and I really don't understand. Why are you doing this? Why?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

John presses his hands to his eyes. "You aren't serious."

"Am I not?"

John is livid now. "Did you not get enough of me back then? Is that it? Didn't quite get as far with me as you'd hoped? Didn't get to stick your gigantic prick inside me, so when I conveniently dropped back into your life you thought you'd work back up to it?"

Sherlock's face is blank, which infuriates John even more. "Was that the whole, elaborate plan? All of the disguises, all of the flirting, and all because you didn't get to fuck me?"

Something occurs to him.

"Jesus Christ, have you been planning this since ... since then?" John knows Sherlock's ridiculously accurate memory. He wouldn't put it past him. Turning on his heel, John paces across the room, then back again. He looks at Sherlock again; he is radiating so much heat from his anger that he might combust from it.

"Is that what you want, then?" John starts unbuttoning his shirt. "You want to fuck me, Sherlock? _Fine_. Who am I to get in the way of the great Sherlock Holmes? Especially when he's on a case."

He drops his shirt and reaches to tug the hem of his tee shirt out of his waist. "Just make sure to use plenty of lube; I've had a bit of a dry spell recently."

Sherlock is lightly running his thumb over the knee of his trousers; his face has a look of deep concentration on it. He watches John intently.

"Well?" John frowns at him, paces to the fireplace again -- why can't he stand still?

"Well what? I'm listening to you, John." Sherlock follows him with eyes that have shifted into a sort of indulgent tolerance. "You say whatever you need to say to ... me."

John is used to this, he's used to Sherlock showing not one shred of sentiment, even when those around him are charged up and emotional. Sherlock has convinced himself that he's a sociopath, that he doesn't actually have emotions. Which is a load of utter tripe, but John coddles him, lets him believe such rubbish if it helps with his work.

But, how -- how? -- is he sitting there so calmly? Did that really mean so little to him? Is he really such a fucking good actor that all through that night -- every bloody minute -- he never felt a thing? Even after all this time, after everything, John still held onto a thread of hope that there'd been some other reason that it ended the way it did.

> "Like that?" he'd asked Brad, all those years ago.
> 
> "I like _you._ "

John's throat stings for a minute; he swallows against it, licks his lip.

"Well ... " John's voice sounds far too quiet. "That whole time, all those years ago. I thought you'd liked it ... liked _me_."

Sherlock freezes; his eyes widen. The room goes dead silent. He stares at John, but his eyes cloud over. He's not here, he's somewhere inside his head.

"Sherlock?" John says quietly. He steps forward in concern.

But Sherlock doesn't answer. After two long, silent minutes Sherlock stands abruptly, reaches for his coat, and is out the door.

John stands in the middle of the room, his mind an all too familiar muddle of confusion.

What in the hell just happened?

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

 

John wakes to a sense of idyllic contentment. He feels really, really good. Yawning, he glances around. It's dark out, only a bit of moonlight shining through, lighting stripes over the duvet. John's on his back, his muscles pleasantly relaxed, and there's a warm arm draped across his stomach, long hair tickling his shoulder.

Brad.

Behind his eyes, John's memory flashes images at him: sweaty, tangled legs, the view of Brad's hair tumbling into his eyes. His stomach aches at the vivid memories -- whispered words that slipped under his skin and still run through his blood, the feel of their lips pressing and sliding and so very real. John smiles, oddly okay with the images flashing behind his eyes. God, this entire situation ... it's been a while since he's had such a good night, and -- well, John considers it for a moment. Really, this is the only time he has ever let go, the only time he's opened himself to someone else with such abandon.

He can't stop smiling.

Brad takes a deep breath, his exhalation blowing over John's nipple, and John's stomach tightens. He kisses the top of Brad's head, then slides over onto his side until he's facing Brad, curls his arm over Brad's skin and closes his eyes contentedly.

After a moment, there's a sharp exhalation of breath and the bed moves as Brad jerks away. When John opens his eyes, Brad's are wide and aghast. Brad bounds out of bed and pulls on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He glances at the clock several times, toward the door, then toward the window, his face disbelieving.

"Brad?" John asks quietly. "What's going on?"

Brad doesn't look at him, paces to the window to look out, then back to the door of the bedroom, peering out and then back to John.

John tries to quell the uneasiness rising inside him. He slides out of bed, glancing around for his boxers and spies them tangled in the duvet. After pulling them on, he walks over to Brad, touches his shoulder. Brad tenses in alarm.

"It's four o'clock in the morning," he says hurriedly. "You can't be-- I can't believe we--"

John feels a growing sense of apprehension. Brad's eyes are nothing like they were before: fond and so hungry for John. Now they're wide, suspicious, cold.

"Hey," he says quietly. John steps forward, right into Brad's space, touches the warm skin over his hip lightly. Brad looks at John's lips, down over his body, and back to his eyes. His eyes soften briefly and he swallows.

"It's okay," John says. "Whatever it is ... I can hel--"

"You've got to go."

Brad kicks into motion, walking around them room and grabbing articles of John's discarded clothing. He's almost manic in his energy. Brad pushes the bundle into John's arms and pushes him through the open bedroom door. John is bewildered by the entire state of affairs. He finally stops Brad's shoving, plants his feet.

"Brad, seriously. What's going on? Just tell me; whatever it is -- it's fine... it's _all fine_. We'll figure this out."

John's mind is racing. What could it be? A flatmate? A boyfriend? Regret? He can't fathom what has changed so suddenly, what changed between them in ten bloody minutes. Not two hours ago Brad had been above him, gasping as they both strained toward completion, rocking together with John's hand covering them both. Not two hours ago, Brad had pressed his forehead against John's, breathing his lips before kissing the corner of his mouth and whispering, "my god John, that was-- you are ... _remarkable._ "

But now Brad stands there, his body ridiculous lines of beauty in the moonlight, and his gaze is incongruous with everything else that has transpired tonight.

"This?" Brad all but spits the word at John. "What is _this_?"

"Brad," John casts around for anything to say that won't spook him, "I meant ... well, that whatever this--"

" _This_ ," Brad says, gesturing between the two of them, "isn't anything."

Which, really, John should have known. You don't meet someone interesting at half eleven in the middle of a club in London. You don't find anyone with whom you'd want more than a quick shag on a night like this, least of all someone you'd want to see again (and again and again).

He should have known.

John swallows. "Yeah, alright." He pulls on his trousers quickly, steps awkwardly into his trainers, wriggling his feet past the laces, and turns his shirt right-side out. Not the best way to end a brilliant night, but John's got his pride.

He pulls on his shirt, reaches for the door handle, but turns to look back at Brad before he opens the door. "Still, though, this was fun."

"This?" Brad's eyes cloud over, unreadable. "This was an experiment. And a failed one at that."

When John pulls the door shut behind him the strident sound of the door echoes around him for a moment while he stands there, dumbfounded. He rather wishes he could shut the very same door around his heart.

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

 

John bangs into his tiny cramped flat, tosses his keys across the room and throws himself down on the sofa. He's rather a bit aware of the ridiculousness of such histrionics (he grew up with Harry, after all), but he can't be arsed to care right now.

He stares at the ceiling, his head back on the edge of the sofa, then throws his arm across his eyes, staring into the darkness of his elbow. His mind races with alternate possibilities, with _what if?_ , with _what in the living fuck just happened?_

What he wants -- what he tries not to listen for -- is the romantic-movie sounds that come with the realisation of a grand misunderstanding. The sound of footsteps on the stairs, a light knock on the door, a voice calling out to him -- reassuring him -- that it was all a mistake. Then: an embrace, inelegant kisses, and naked, sweaty fumblings that fog his mind with lust.

But John's not stupid. Nothing like that actually happens in life, least of all that of a short, orphaned Englishman trying to make a steady go at medical college in spite of all of the obstacles that keep blundering into his path. The sofa cushion is itchy, irritating against his neck. He reaches back to scratch it, then rubs lightly against a sensitive spot as his mind explodes into a memory.

> Brad above him, pushing against him, John sliding up onto his elbows to lick his mouth and banging his head against the headboard. Laughing, both of them laughing, Brad's eyes... darkened, impossibly fond, and only, only for John.

John pushes himself away from the back of the sofa. It makes his skin crawl. He can't sit here. He stands, walks into the bathroom and pulls off his shirt. He'll have a shower, clean up, wash everything about last night down the drain. Glancing into the mirror, he spies a darkened mark on his neck and frowns. When he looks down, there's another on his hip, and John mentally calculates -- there are probably at least four more on other parts of his body.

Then, a gasp behind him, and John's heart sinks. He shuts his eyes and wills himself invisible, wishes himself anywhere else but here.

" _John_?"

He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. Martha stands in the doorway, her eyes wide, raking over the obvious evidence from his night.

"I can't believe you," she says, her voice rising as she speaks. "I was here all night," her eyes are accusing, "I _waited_ for you."

Fuck.

John remembers now the conversation, remembers promising Martha that he'd meet her back here after hanging out with his mates, had promised they'd have some time together.

But, god, one glance, one (perfect) kiss from Brad, and John forgot everything, severed his connections... and all for the promise of something beautiful.

"Martha," he turns to her. "I can explain. I can."

"Forget it, John," she says, looks pointedly at the obvious marks on his body. "There's nothing to explain."

And really, there isn't. Martha hadn't once crossed his mind throughout the entire night.

"I hope it was worth it," she says quietly. "I hope _her_ father isn't a professor at Saint Bart's, too. That might make your romantic entanglements a bit too precarious to navigate."

She steps forward, then slaps John across the face, hard. "Fuck you," she says, her voice cold.

Then she turns and walks out.

John braces his hands on the sides of the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. His reflection is clear for a moment, then swims in front of him.

Christ, what a bloody mess. He just needs to forget, needs to turn off his mind for a little while.

John remembers a bottle he'd confiscated from Harry one night when she'd been inconsolable over her most recent crisis of emotion. It's barely been opened, still in the lower cabinet where he put it months ago. John spins on his heel and walks into the makeshift kitchen, pulls the bottle from its hiding place in the back of the cabinet and stares down at the clear liquid swirling and reflecting his indiscretions in vivid detail.

Vodka.

He takes a deep breath, his mind hovering on the edge of decision.

John wants -- he _needs_ \-- to forget.

He shuts his eyes and twists the bottle open.

 

~*~

 

A small eternity passes, and John comes back to himself with an abrupt shudder. He blinks, looks around. He's still in the middle of the room, exactly where he'd been when Sherlock walked out.

He has no idea how much time has passed -- were he Sherlock he'd be able to tell by the angle of the moonlight, but John lost that talent as soon as he left Afghanistan.

It's so quiet here, so quiet that John can hear the blood pounding in his ears, can catalogue the pathways his thoughts are travelling, can feel the inches of cotton fabric against his skin. He wants to tear it off, pull his thoughts out in one long thread, coil them up and toss them into the fireplace. His skin feels too small for his body, his brain too big for his head.

It's post-Afghanistan all over again: the sparse bedsit with too much time and too little distraction. But this time his mind isn't racing with echoes of war, this time he's gone far back beyond that. He's digging into memories he'd long ago buried, unearthing post-adolescent anguish that no one should have to re-live past the age of thirty.

He throws open the window, breathing the breeze and gulping lungfuls of London as if it could somehow heal his spirit. John watches the cars pass, sees a few passersby, and can't decide if the ache inside him is because he wants to see Sherlock's purposeful stride down the street or because he doesn't.

He crosses to the kitchen, but for what he has no idea. After a moment John finds the kettle in his hand and a mug in the other. Ahh, well, tea then. The Englishman's cure for everything. He drops a teabag into his mug, gets out sugar and milk and stops for a moment to wait.

Leaning against the counter, John examines the debris in front of him: four new jars with mould aging attractively, a glass jar with clean eyedroppers, a pile of slides and petri dishes just waiting for their next bit of research. It's so bloody calming; it makes his heart ache a little.

When the kettle boils, he fixes the tea, adding a bit more milk than normal.

The clutter around him makes his eyes ache; he needs a blank surface -- just one. He grabs a wash bucket and stacks all of the dishes, papers and various substances from the table inside. Then he moves the bucket to the side of the sink, scrubs the table with a wet tea towel, and sits down to a table that hasn't been cleared in all of the months he's lived here.

As he drinks his tea, John tries to think rationally. The whole 'conversation' (he can hear the sarcasm in his thoughts) before Sherlock walked out has left him feeling empty, left a lingering taste of bile in its wake. It's rare for Sherlock to listen more than a moment or two without offering his own deductions. Yet, he sat there, watching John, listening. Not saying a word. Why?

What could possibly keep Sherlock quiet for an entire conversation? Particularly, John thinks, a conversation where John was accusing him of some rather harsh things. Sherlock has never been one to sit by and let something go by when it can be corrected.

So, either John's accusations were spot on... or there's something else going on that he hasn't figured out yet.

John presses his fingers to his eyebrows, kneads his forehead. He's starting to get a headache. Then he smiles grimly and shakes his head. This is why he needs Sherlock. John's a sounding board, a good medical opinion, someone with whom Sherlock can talk aloud. But John is not the detective. He sees a lot, he observes a lot, but dammit, this is Sherlock's forte.

He remembers a case a few weeks ago where the suspect had amnesia. The police had found a hypnotist, called in a therapist, and as it turned out, it wasn't even the right person. The suspect really and truly hadn't known what was going on.

John remembers Sherlock's explanation to Dimmock: _People are capable of lying, yes. They're capable of twisting the truth, of appearing unfazed, even in the middle of harsh cross-examination. But there are always clues. Belinda's eyes never changed, her hands were calm, steady, and her eyes moved in typical patterns over the environment around her. Detective Inspector, she's innocent. She didn't know._

And then, suddenly, it hits him.

Sherlock had watched him unflinchingly; his hands were calm, his eyes focused on John and so magnificently open. He'd never once jumped in to quarrel with John. It wasn't until the end that he'd had any sort of expressive reaction...

John sucks in his breath. Sherlock hadn't _known._

Christ, and John had said such terrible things to him, accused him of such nasty motives. John scrubs his hand over his face. His mind aches and he has a sudden, irrational desire to tear out of the flat and search all of London until he finds Sherlock.

He goes so far as to stand up, to hurry over to the coat rack and grab his coat. When he wrenches open the door Sherlock is standing there. His cheeks are flushed, his hair windblown, and his eyes are wider, more earnest than John has ever seen them.

His mind flashes back and he can see Brad's eyes, can see his expressions superimposing on and then filling Sherlock's visage in front of him. A stab of regret, of want, shudders through him and John freezes.

Sherlock looks at John intently, holds his gaze.

"John," he says. " _John_."

John can hear the emphasis, the sincerity, as though Sherlock were speaking in capital letters.

"There are things I have to tell you."

 

~*~

 

 **December 1992**

John wakes to a sharp _bang_ and a foggy mind. It takes him more than a moment to open his eyes, to look around and remember where he is, what day it is -- Thursday. He's about seventy-five percent sure it's Thursday. The light is low, filtered. Either dawn or dusk, but he can't be sure. And as he dropped his clock a few days ago, that's of no use.

There's a muffled sound, a swear, and John sits upright. Someone is in the flat. His heart leaps and John rushes out of bed, more eager than he's been in months. Christ, maybe it wasn't a mistake, maybe...

John pulls open his bedroom door with an enormous grin. Then he freezes.

It's Martha.

Putting her things in a large box: shoes, cassette tapes, a few jumpers, books she'd read and left here even though he reminded her that he didn't have any time to read for fun with his coursework.

His heart sinks.

Of course it's Martha. How could it possibly have been anyone else?

John backs into his bedroom, pushes the door closed quietly and sits down heavily on his bed. He glances out the window: people headed home from work, carrying newspapers, bags from the market.

Dusk, then.

He's missed another whole day. Another class or two. John's missed so many he can scarcely keep track anymore.

He doesn't actually want to flunk out; he isn't actively seeking failure. John wants to be a doctor. He knows he'll be damn good at it -- better than anything else he's done. But he has no idea how many assignments he's missed, has long since stopped listening to the messages adding up on the answerphone.

Even if he wanted to -- he does; he must do -- how could he even begin to dig himself out of the mess that's piled on top of him like a mountain of snow?

There's another muffled sound, then John hears the slam of the door and Martha's heavy footsteps down to the street. Angry, again. All he's ever done is make her angry, and he's still not sure exactly what he (always) did wrong.

Why does everything have to be so bloody complicated?

All he wants is something interesting, something real, something that makes him think. And medicine had done, for years now.

What if he's gone and fucked it all up?

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

John hangs up the phone with a grin. Yeah, he definitely needs a night out. It's been far too long, with far too much continuing to fall in front of him. John lifts his tee shirt, sniffs it. Yeah, he'll definitely have a shower.

He mentally calculates. It won't take him that long, and if he's going to meet them at Daniel's flat, the biggest time will be spent on the tube. Stretching his arms overhead, John pulls off his shirt and starts toward the bathroom. Then he stops mid-stride. Damn.

Martha.

They'd made some sort of plan for tonight... she was going to come over. He exhales, imagining their night. There will be some pleasant snogging, some even better petting, then something will piss her off and she'll start yelling at him about all the things he should be better at.

Which he should.

Except... why, though? Shouldn't he _want_ to be a better boyfriend? Isn't that supposed to be a desired part of a relationship? Talking things through, fixing them, wanting to be a better person? John has no bloody clue.

He walks into the bathroom and turns on the water. He'll shower quickly, then stop off at Martha's and convince her he needs this, that he'll be back later and then they can have some time together.

That'll work. It has to.

 

~*~

 

John stares at Sherlock, aware that he hasn't taken a full breath since he pulled open the door to find Sherlock standing there.

They stand in the doorway for longer than they probably should. There are times that John (thinks he) can tell what Sherlock is thinking, times where they are completely in sync. Then there are times where John wishes he had a way to download Sherlock's train of thought like an mp3 and listen to it over and over again, absorb it into his mind until it makes sense.

John doesn't know which sort of time this is.

Here is what John wants: Sherlock to explain everything away, to tell him the entire Brad debacle was a mistake, a misunderstanding. He wants Sherlock to train his eyes on John, touch his face, confess that he desperately wants him too, that all of the bloody signals he sends out to John constantly mean exactly what John wants them to mean.

Here is what John knows: Sherlock has reasons for everything. Even if they aren't immediately obvious, they generally make quite a bit of sense when -- or if -- he explains them.

Here is the likely reality: John's been reading far too much into things and he's going to feel like a right idiot in approximately eight and half minutes.

Sherlock takes a breath, unbuttons his coat.

That simple act breaks through the plastic coating holding them still and John feels the sounds of London roar back into life and float behind him like a cushion.

John doesn't know what Sherlock is expecting, but he has to start talking, has to break down the mountains of unspoken apprehension between them.

"Sherlock." John tastes the word, rolls it around his tongue. It's still as savoury as it was the first time he'd said it, still a comforting weight and puzzle in his mouth.

"Sherlock," he says again. "You didn't - _know_."

Something John doesn't recognize -- _relief?_ \-- passes over Sherlock's face.

"I didn't."

Approximately nine questions careen around inside John's head, all begging for exit at the exact same time.

He walks into the living room, sits down in his favourite chair, hears Sherlock follow him.

"But how-- how can you ... possibly _not_ know? Sherlock, it was you, it was definitely you. I may not have the same sort of memory, but--" his mind flashes images that still set his heart pounding dangerously "--that's something I know."

Sherlock is watching his face, reading John like he reads music.

"It's--" Sherlock starts, pauses. "It's -- well, I think the term in current vernacular right now is -- _complicated._ "

John grins in spite of himself.

"I've shared with you that I was rather... wild for several years when I was younger."

John nods. "Go on."

"Were I to be gauche, I'd say that I was 'strung out.' For quite a while. I was heavily into cocaine, experimenting with morphine and a few other rather strong opiates. Mycroft refers to it as my 'dark period.' A lot of that time is still a blank for me."

"You deleted it?"

"My mind couldn't realistically hold onto it, not with the amount of sensation I was forcing in daily. Yes. I deleted it."

"So, you honestly don't remember?"

"... not exactly."

Sherlock sighs. Which would be surprising, because John can't remember when he's ever heard Sherlock sigh, but... in the context of this conversation, it's downright disconcerting.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock pauses a moment, glances down at his hands, then back up to John. He is sitting upright in the chair, ankles crossed, the model of a perfect gentleman. After a moment, though, he uncrosses his legs, leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees. He looks right into John's eyes.

"Some things don't stay deleted."

 

~*~


	3. Chapter 3

John looks at him. Sherlock is quiet for a minute, glances toward the loo.

"Sherlock, you are not getting a nicotine patch for this conversation." John pushes himself out of the chair.

"Nicotine helps me solve difficult problems; you know this, John."

"I am not a problem."

Sherlock looks at him sharply, then his expression softens, it's almost fond.

"Conversations _are_ problems, John," he says. "Not mathematical or scientific problems, certainly, but problems nevertheless. Behaviour is predictable, obvious. Conversation is far more volatile, more likely to go wrong."

"I disagree. Conversation can be a means to understanding, can be enlightening... can explain to someone why in the living hell their flatmate dresses up as someone from the long past, and what, exactly, they're trying to accomplish."

Sherlock looks at him. His gaze flicks up and down John's stance, returns to John's eyes.

"I believe you've just made my point."

John sighs. "Fine. I give up. Get the bloody patch--"

"Two."

"Get the bloody _patches_ , then. I don't care."

"Your posture belies that last statement quite emphatically."

"Alright, then." John presses his lips together, shakes his head. "I'm trying really hard not to care."

"That is much more in line with your body language."

John huffs, an equal mix of laughter and exasperation. "You're really not helping, Sherlock."

"I'm not trying."

"Obviously."

Sherlock rises and starts toward the loo; John follows him, leans against the doorframe as Sherlock rummages in the bottom drawer for the box of nicotine patches.

The patch pulls away from the waxy coating like a plaster against skin and John replays a bit of their conversation in his mind.

"I still think you're wrong, though."

Sherlock's mouth quirks. He's busy affixing the patches to his forearm, pressing them down with sure fingers.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, definitely wrong. Conversation, communication, it's all part of human behaviour, yes?"

Sherlock turns to look at him. "Is it, then? Go on."

"So," John ticks off points on his fingers, "if conversation is a part of behaviour, and behaviour is predictable -- like you said -- then it would logically follow that that conversation would be just as predictable."

Sherlock's eyes crinkle at the corners.

John pauses a moment, reads Sherlock's face. "You don't agree."

"I don't?"

"No, you don't. But don't you see? You're proving my point. I just predicted that you didn't agree; this is part of conversation, which is part of behaviour."

Sherlock's face is quiet, pleased. Warmth from Sherlock's intense scrutiny spreads through John; Sherlock's ability to look at him and see so much has always intrigued him. He licks his lips, cocks his head for a minute, then breaks out into a grin.

"Alright, tell me then. How have I got it wrong?"

With a flourish, Sherlock tosses the waxy wrappers behind him and leans against the sink. When he speaks it's quick, deliberate speech, with several words over enunciated.

"Behaviour is impulse, cause and effect, action and reaction. Conversation, John, is an intellectual process. Because the mind is involved, there are always multiple pathways, many possibilities. As there are millions of neurons, synapses, so are there different options in a conversation."

"But there would be different options in behaviour as well," John protests. "When you walked downstairs in that disguise this morning, I could have done any number of things. I could have yelled at you, hit you, thrown you against wall. But I didn't do any of those things."

"Of course not."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't have done. That's not what you do."

"And what do I do?"

"You think, John. Being in the army, being controlled by rules, taught you to keep your temper reigned in. As a doctor, you're good under pressure, learned to keep your feelings to yourself, your voice calm. You've been remarkably good at it, even given your history of family difficulty."

John's impressed, hearing it all spelled out like that. It hadn't occurred to him that his career as both a soldier and a doctor were so compatible in that element.

"You are, almost to a fault, highly self-controlled."

He definitely doesn't feel self-controlled. Even now, John still can't help the way his eyes flick over the open buttons of Sherlock's dark blue shirt, tracing the seams over his shoulders and all the way down to his long fingers. It would take only a step or two; he'd be in Sherlock's space, close enough to touch the sharp lines of his jaw, to unbutton that infernally well-fitted shirt.

"You're doing it now."

John snaps out of his reverie. "... sorry?"

"You're doing it now, John. Watching me, your mind taking you a fair number of places, but you haven't -- nor will you -- move an inch."

John wonders if they're still talking about predicting behaviour, or if Sherlock has somehow moved onto a new, subtle challenge. He wonders if Sherlock would want him to catch on. He wonders what Sherlock would do if he--

Ah.

Ahh, that. That is why John is so tightly controlled. It's easier to deal with such trains of thought, if he doesn't actively think about them.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"You've got us off track, again. How does this connect to your ability to predict behaviour, which -- according to you -- has nothing to do with predicting conversation, which is also apparently impossible because of too many neural pathways."

"Ah, you do follow."

"Oh, I follow, all right. I just don't agree."

Sherlock grins.

"So, when you walked downstairs this morning and I didn't do any of those things -- you're saying that you predicted that?"

"Of course not, John. I had no idea that you'd react in any way. The disguise was for something else altogether."

Sherlock closes the drawer with his foot, pushes past John and moves into the living room.

John follows him. "So you're saying that my behaviour following your appearance in that disguise was compatible with what you know about me."

"Precisely."

John doesn't say anything. Sherlock sits, pulls down his cuffs, then looks up at John. His eyes widen, almost comically.

"Oh. You're waiting for me to explain?"

Always with the flair for the dramatic. John shakes his head. "You knew I was."

Sherlock doesn't answer. Of course. He simply jumps back in. "I thought I'd explained it. Very well. When you were in Afghanistan, in the middle of combat, you developed a way of coping with the horror of what you were seeing, when it all got too much.

"You'd press your lips together, touch each tooth with your tongue, count them."

He's right, of course, but John doesn't say anything.

"You do it still now, John. I can see it when you're angry with me: the skin under your jaw moves deliberately, slowly. It's the same pattern every time. It calms you."

"But how do you know I started doing it in Afghanistan?"

"The skin around your mouth. The lines are lighter there; they were tanned, but not deep. They're recent, not like the lines at the corners of your eyes when you smile."

And even though John knows Sherlock studies everything, sees everything in a single glance or a quick observation, he can't help but feel a little thrill that Sherlock has noticed what he looks like when he smiles.

"When you're upset, John, you step away. But when you can't physically do so, you do it in other ways."

John's quiet for a long moment, thinking. A calm silence settles over the room, punctuated only by the sounds of London beyond. Beyond and so far away right now that it might as well be Afghanistan.

"So," he says gently. "When I left this morning--"

There's a long pause.

"That wasn't a question, John."

"No, it wasn't."

"You have questions."

"Sherlock." John is suddenly overwhelmed. "I have so _many_ questions. I don't even know where to start."

He collapses into the armchair, his palms up on his thighs. Sherlock shifts, edges forward in the chair.

"Where do you want to start?"

John thinks for a long moment. He doesn't even know where to start. Sherlock's face is open, watching him. How can he start; where would he start?

But Sherlock saves him the trouble.

"So," he says, "that was you, then. All those years ago."

John nods. "It was me."

Sherlock presses his fingertips together, touches his joined index fingers to his bottom lip. "That explains a lot, actually."

"What does it explain?"

"Things that crop up in my mind, odd shadows and images that I see sometimes. But I usually don't pay them any mind."

"Why not?"

"Because they don't matter." Sherlock looks at him strangely. "They don't have bearing on any of our cases, why would I waste the brain power trying to decipher them?"

"They don't - matter?"

"Well, they didn't before."

There's something different in Sherlock's voice.

"But they do now?"

"Obviously. Now I know what they are."

"Does that change things, then?"

"Of course it does."

Sherlock's eyes are wide, pleased, like he can't quite figure something out, but he's certain it's going to be good.

"John, I never remember things once I've deleted them. But this one didn't stay deleted. Tell me, what name did I use then?"

"Uh... you were called Brad."

"Yes... yes, alright, and quickly: did we see each other again after that?"

"No, we didn't. I kept--" John swallows, "-- we didn't see each other again, no."

"Did we meet at a club, sometime around midweek?"

"... yeah."

"Did you see me again, though? Maybe at the club some time after?"

"I... well, actually, I don't know. I didn't go back there, so no I didn't see you, but I wouldn't know if you had done."

"Interesting." Sherlock looks at him, looks up and down, lingers on his neck for a bit longer than John might expect, then rubs his joined index fingers back and forth over his lower lip.

"I wonder if you're the one, then."

"If I'm the one that... what?" John's used to not following Sherlock's line of questioning right away, but it is rather perplexing to realise that it's one involving his own past.

Sherlock is up out of his chair immediately, hopping gracefully over the side and disappearing into his bedroom. John hears him moving around, but doesn't go after him. He's sort of... torn right now about what's going on. His mind feels sluggish, slow from overuse.

John scrubs his hand over his face, pulls lightly on his lips, and looks at the cluttered panorama around him.

To be honest, it's rather a nice break to have Sherlock out of his line of view for a few moments. Since this morning his brain has been on overload: pulling out, reviewing old memories John hasn't thought about in more than a decade. With them, John has become _painfully_ aware of how much he watches Sherlock, follows him, categorises his body movements. It's almost as though the memories long buried have pulled other things to the surface, pulled with them latent, serious feelings that John had been all too happy to ignore.

Why -- _why_? -- can't anything be simple when it comes to Sherlock?

And why can't John stop thinking about him?

 

~*~

 

Sherlock walks back into the room, carrying several bound leather books with him, then sits back down across from John and puts them in a stack at his feet. This is remarkable, in and of itself, because Sherlock has actually made the effort to come back here instead of calling out (or texting) and expecting John to come to him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off. He doesn't know why he's suddenly upset again, but something about Sherlock's blithe ebullience sets him off.

"Sherlock, I--" Damn his fucking inability to form a sentence at times like this.

"Sherlock. I'm not sure-- I mean, I don't know if I want to hear a long, convoluted explanation of why you picked me up at the club, and... and why you made me leave. I just--"

John looks at him. "I mean, I _do_ want to know. You showing up in that -- as Brad -- today was too much of a coincidence, of course I want to know. Just try to remember that I'm an actual human being here. I was twenty-two; I was so young. I got--" he stops, "I got far more emotionally involved than was probably smart."

He sits back in his chair, exhausted. "I was a wreck afterward, Sherlock. A bloody wreck."

 

~*~

 

 **November 1992**

 

John is really going to come now. Any minute. Brad's braced over him, one hand gripped on the headboard, the other on John's face, two fingers in his mouth. John can feel every inch of Brad's cock pressed against his own, pressing and sliding and driving him mad with want. John rocks up against him, his hand slippery with lube as he slides it over them, squeezing tightly after every thrust.

He might die from this. He might die or lose his mind. He might die or lose his mind or start babbling embarrassing, romantic words that he'll never take back.

John grunts something incoherent around Brad's long fingers, licks the pads of his fingertips and sucks them deep into his mouth.

"Oh. Oh god, _John._ "

And John's stomach tightens... god, he's so lost right now, he wants-- he wants so bloody desperately. Turning his head, Brad's fingers slip from his mouth and John squeezes his stomach so he can lean up to rest on his other elbow. He kisses Brad once, open-mouthed.

"God, Brad, you feel-- you feel so good... I-- I just want--"

Brad licks the corner of John's mouth, lets out something like a moan.

"I wanna make you come," John pants, "I want to feel you fall apart, want to-- oh god, I want to watch you, want to hear you say my name..."

"Oh... _oh_ ," Brad's voice is hoarse; John can feel his muscles tensing against him.

"Brad," he whispers, eyes flitting over every part of Brad's face. He squeezes his hand around their cocks, rubs the glans with his thumb, and doesn't doesn't doesn't shut his eyes.

Brad lets out a strangled moan, his body jerks once, and he hisses John's name so long and low that John can breathe it all in. Brad's face is beautiful, all lines of pleasure. Then Brad kisses him, sucks John's upper lip and thrusts against him, then whispers, "you are so _fucking_ gorgeous..."

\--and John sees white.

His body tightens and lets go, sparks flashing, spreading through him as he clings to Brad, clings to sensation, clings to these moments: so perfect and new.

John is blind for more than a moment, his heart pounding faster than it's ever done. When he can see again, he lets out a short, breathy laugh of pleasure.

"Christ."

Brad reaches down, tugs John's elbow until he lies flat, then leans in to John's mouth.

"John," he says, his voice throaty, "that was-- you are... _remarkable_."

And John falls a little bit in love.

 

~*~

 

"It was an experiment."

John winces slightly at the words, but doesn't say anything.

"Mycroft and I have several longstanding debates. One: being able to predict human behaviour; two: the effect of human emotion on behaviour; three: the possibility of actual alien interference here on earth. The third, obviously, isn't relevant here."

Sherlock dismisses it with a careless wave and continues.

"Mycroft, as you know, is a high ranking official in the government. For years he's tried to employ me on a permanent basis--" at this, Sherlock shudders "--which doesn't suit me at all. But I have agreed at various times to follow individuals, to observe their habits, to give insight into what they're likely to do."

"You profile them?"

"No, John, I observe. That is -- exactly -- the point upon which we disagree. When I offer Mycroft my deductions, the patterns of behaviour consistently follow my predictions. Yet he still claims it's impossible to predict behaviour, which is obviously not the case."

"But you can't predict behaviour correctly all the time."

"More often than not."

"Not one hundred percent of the time, though."

Sherlock frowns. "... that's true. But John, we don't think the same way. I see things--"

John stops listening for a moment; Sherlock has gone into a long explanation for which John really has no tolerance right now.

"Sherlock."

There are exactly zero interruptions in Sherlock's diatribe. Not one.

"Sherlock - yes ... Sherlock, alright!" John tries to get a word in edgewise. _Christ_.

"Hmm?" Sherlock looks at him quizzically.

"Sherlock. The disguises. All of them."

Sherlock cocks his head in interest, eyes open and blank. Which is, John's quite certain, a load of complete bollocks. He knows exactly what John's asking.

"I can't believe you're making me spell this out for - y'know what? Fuck it. If you're going to sit there and act like you have no idea what I'm asking, then I'll bloody well figure it out for myself."

John presses his hand over his mouth, squeezes his lips as he thinks. It's been, as far as he can tell, a relatively recent phenomenon. He thinks back; the barista at the coffee shop, Kate, was about seven, maybe eight weeks ago. But he'd seen her before that; she'd smiled at him several times in the shop. It's slightly odd to be calling her a 'her' as he now knew it was Sherlock, but his disguises were nearly flawless. John never would have picked up on it had Sherlock not said anything.

Oh.

So, John had seen Sherlock in disguise a few times and had no idea, but then Sherlock had decided to make himself known, had decided to let John in on the experiment, so -

"You were bored," he says finally. "You wanted to see if I could recognize you."

Sherlock's eyes brighten. "And you did."

"But not at first."

Definitely not at first. He'd needed Sherlock to explain it all for him. John thinks back. So, Kate. Then after that it was the bloke in the laundromat ... Brian. The one that invited him to the gents, who'd pressed him hard against the door, mouthing words all over him. God, that had been...

John swallows. That had really thrown him. John figured that one out specifically because Sherlock had given him far more obvious clues.

"No," Sherlock says quietly. "Not at first. But you did figure it out. Each one, actually."

"Did I?"

"Yes."

That was interesting. "So there aren't any that you tried out that I haven't seen?"

"There are other disguises, of course. But no others that I've done in your presence..." Sherlock looks at him; John can't read his face.

"So - why'd you start?"

"I was bored."

"Like I said. And?"

Sherlock smiles. "The first was an accident, really. I was legitimately trying out a disguise to see how it would play. You walked into the shop after a couple of hours, clearly on a break. I was the one that made your drink; I was fascinated to see if you'd know me, but when I handed you the drink you thanked me, _beamed_ at me, actually, and then left with the drink in your hand."

John vaguely remembers a couple of times smiling at Kate (she was stunning), but isn't sure he knows to which instance Sherlock is referring.

"Then I watched you after work to see if you knew, if you were hiding it. But you weren't. So I thought I'd try again."

John watches him; there isn't a trace of cruelty in Sherlock's eyes, just curiosity.

"How many?"

"Four."

"Four?" That is a surprise. John definitely doesn't remember seeing Kate four times. "Why don't I remember?"

"Because you're friendly to everyone."

"Well... yeah."

"No, John, you're truly friendly and pleasant." Sherlock looks at him. John can't tell whether Sherlock considers this a good thing or an obvious character flaw. "You make conversation with people around you, and you're pleasant -- almost to a fault -- to the people in the shop. They like you."

"Sherlock, you do understand that they're about to hand me a luxurious caffeinated beverage, yes? It would not do to piss them off."

"No, John, they--" Sherlock glances down, looks back up at him, oddly appraising. "They truly like you. They call you 'our doctor' and talk about you when you're not there."

"Oh. Alright, I--" John pauses. He doesn't know what to say.

"You don't remember because Kate was just part of your routine, part of your everyday life."

John thinks he's starting to catch on.

"So you flirted with me to get me to notice you. So you would stand out."

"Not me, John. _Kate._ "

Semantics.

He can remember Kate flirting with him, commenting on his hair (apparently the patch of grey is sexy), his job (doctors were fascinating), and his apparel (she could tell good quality when she saw it). It had seemed like a normal, every day sort of flirtation. John grins. No wonder Sherlock needed to do something to get John to realise it was a disguise.

"So, what made you give it away?" John asks.

"You did."

"I did? How? What did I do?"

"Quite simply: I wanted to see how you would react."

"Well, yeah." John is confused. "Of course you would do. But what do you mean by that?"

Sherlock's expression is soft. "I find you to be something of an enigma, John."

"An enigma? How so?"

"I can't always predict your behaviour." Sherlock tilts his head slightly, glances away. "That's rare for me; I don't think you understand how much."

"So... you flirted with me to get me to notice you, to see - what, exactly? You were doing it in a perfectly ordinary way, what would that accomplish?"

"But you didn't figure it out the first time. I made too obscure a reference--" John can't tell if Sherlock's frown is because of his own misjudgement of the reference or because John didn't pick up on it, "I needed to adjust it the next time."

"There were a lot of next times."

"I had a lot of data to gather."

"So, that's what I am, then?" John jokes. "Data?"

"John, _no_."

Sherlock's face is troubled; he looks down. He's misread John's humour.

"You seem to think you're somehow ordinary, but you are anything but ordinary, John." Sherlock still doesn't look at him. But his words float between them, John hears them as though they were travelling a great distance. When they finally reach him -- when he finally _hears_ \-- they bloom outward inside him, filling him with something like hope.

Sherlock is almost murmuring to himself now. "... intelligence tinged with empathy, duty with a sense of humanity." He looks up at John, the expression on his face raw, more communicative than John has ever seen it.

"You're unpredictable, John. Fascinating."

And that, that right there, explodes behind John's eyes. It's as if he has put on a pair of corrective lenses that he never knew he needed. John has no idea how he's never seen this before. He's been so busy fighting against his own attraction to Sherlock, to his own issues with the past that he never noticed -- it never occurred to him.

In every disguise, in _every_ interaction, Sherlock's characters flirted with him, stood too close, tried to get his attention, tried to make John notice them. How hadn't he seen it before?

Sherlock wants him. Or (at the very least) is attracted to him. Also -- and this is the remarkable part -- Sherlock has no idea.

 

~*~

 

There's a long, weighty pause as Sherlock looks at him. John doesn't break his gaze, at least not right away. His mind flashes back over all of Sherlock's disguises, remembers the thrilling tension he'd felt with each of them. Each one. It's as though no matter what Sherlock does, no matter who he is, John will always, always be drawn to him.

He swallows, looks down for a minute, then back up into Sherlock's eyes.

"John." Sherlock says it so gently.

But - but, John can't do this right now. He doesn't do very often, but there are times when John is convinced that Sherlock can read everything he's thinking. John's not ready for that. Not yet.

Not when he hasn't even figured out his own thoughts yet.

"I need a cup of tea," he says quietly, pushing out of the chair and walking into the kitchen. He runs water into the kettle, then turns it on and grabs both a mug and a teabag from the cabinet. The table is still clear; he sets the sugar bowl and a spoon on it and then leans heavily back against the counter to wait for the water to boil.

Sherlock wanders in a few moments later, sits down at the table and looks at John. John nods at him, presses his lips together in a forced smile, but doesn't say anything.

Sherlock reaches for the sugar bowl. He pulls off the lid, then twirls the spoon between his fingers for a moment before dipping it back in and stirring absently.

When the kettle boils, John fixes the tea, adding a bit of milk while the tea is steeping, and carries the mug to the table. Sherlock watches him, then measures out just the right amount of sugar (slightly less than a spoonful) and hands it to John, who dumps it into his cup and stirs. It's a scene of perfectly domestic bliss that sort of makes John's heart ache.

They don't say anything; they sit and breathe and wait, and John inhales the steam right into his lungs as though it could somehow give him the answers he thinks he's looking for.

Sherlock is uncharacteristically quiet. Well, that's not completely true. John's known him to be exactly like he'd promised when they first met -- sometimes he truly doesn't talk for days. He can go hours in their flat with the severest of concentration, without moving a muscle. It can be a bit disconcerting. Once John even went so far as to check that he was breathing after a particularly long period of inactivity.

But Sherlock isn't like that right now. John has lived with him for long enough now that he can read his moods better than he ever thought he might on that first night. Sherlock can be a whirl of manic energy, in perpetual motion even when standing still. John doesn't have to look at him to know that Sherlock's mind is going several miles a minute.

He's reluctant to break into it.

After another minute or two, though, Sherlock leans back in the chair and presses his fingertips under his lower lip.

"You were angry with me."

"I was."

"But you're not now."

"No."

"And it has nothing to do with the tea."

John smirks. "No. But the tea is definitely helping."

Then it occurs to John that he didn't offer to make a cuppa for Sherlock. Normally he either does it automatically or asks first. But this time he was singularly focused on getting his mind away from Sherlock, at least for a few moments.

"I didn't ask if you wanted a cup."

"I don't."

"But I didn't ask."

"No. But it wouldn't have mattered; I don't want any."

"Yes, Sherlock - fine. I know that." Now John's feeling agitated. "I'm reflecting on the fact that it didn't occur to me to ask you if you wanted - not that I could have divined whether you wanted one from the positioning of your hands on your hips or the slight leftish tilt to your head." He glares for a minute, takes a deep breath. "It's that I didn't ask. It would have been the polite thing to do. And I didn't do it."

Maybe he is still a little bit angry.

"You're still a bit angry."

"Yes, well--" John pushes back from the table, walks to the sliding door and back. "You have to remember that I spent most of the day today thinking that you put on a disguise this morning with the sole purpose of doing my head in."

Sherlock follows him with his eyes; his head doesn't move.

"Sherlock, this entire day I've remembered moments, images, _feelings_ and what I couldn't shake," He clenches his hand, hard. "What I couldn't stop thinking about - was how they were all a load of complete bollocks. Something I'd thought was real, even if it ended badly, was just an elaborate plot to toy with me. None of it was _real_."

"John-"

"Sherlock, I'm not finished. I know better now; I know now that you didn't know, that you didn't -- still don't -- remember. But, you have got to try to understand what I was thinking, where my mind was, all day long. I've spent months here now, as your flatmate, as your colleague ... as your _friend_ ," John catches his voice before it breaks. "And today I felt deeply, unshakably betrayed."

He finally looks at Sherlock. "That isn't easy to handle. Believe me."

John tries to read Sherlock's face. He can be a marvel at hiding what he is thinking, but John has figured out quite a bit over their months of companionship. There isn't much showing on Sherlock's face, but his eyes are wide, understanding. He looks urgently at John, pushes back his chair and strides over to him.

Sherlock grabs John's forearms; when he speaks his voice is low, desperate. "I do understand, John. I _know_."

John looks at him curiously. This wasn't what he expected. Not at all.

"At the pool?" Sherlock tightens his grip on John's arms. It's not uncomfortable at all; it makes John's breath hitch. He wants to lean closer.

"John, you have no - well, maybe you do. That night at the pool, John. When you stepped out from the eaves ..." Sherlock's eyes catch his, hold them firmly. "The moment I saw you there, I was - I was dumbfounded, betrayed. Nothing about what I saw matched any of my deductions. You suddenly weren't who I thought you were."

Sherlock moves closer. John can't move; his muscles have stopped.

"I knew so much about you, but I didn't know - that. I hadn't seen something. _Me_. I had missed something. And if I couldn't trust you ... I couldn't trust my mind anymore."

Sherlock's eyes are wild; John can't read them.

"Apart from - you, that's the only thing I've ever been able to reliably trust. Don't you see? John, you--"

Sherlock surges forward, pulls John's face between his hands and kisses him deeply. John is barely able to breathe from the intensity of their lips pressed together. He opens his mouth, lets Sherlock in and shuts his eyes as though he could make it last just by desire alone. His heart beats furiously, too surprised to keep its normal rhythm.

So many things are fleeting, possibly this more than any other. John has no desire to let this go before he has the chance to truly experience it. He shuts his eyes, lets it all wash over him, and kisses fiercely back.

 _God._

Sherlock pulls back slightly, whispers against his lips, "John, do you-- I can't--"

John looks at him. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't move at all. His brain can barely process the past hour, let alone the past few minutes. He doesn't let it wander into imagined fantasy; that's far too dangerous.

Instead, John shuts his eyes again, lets Sherlock's breath flow over him, and doesn't think. He presses their foreheads together, kisses Sherlock's lower lip gently, slowly, then looks up, right into his eyes.

Sherlock is unusually quiet, pensive. "It would appear that I'm attracted to you."

"The evidence seems to support that, yeah."

"I hadn't ... expected that."

"Sometimes, even you can't predict everything."

Sherlock considers this, even as their mouths paint the air between them. He doesn't move (not even an inch) away from John.

"I don't know what to do next," he confesses.

"Well, you're in good company," John says. "Neither do I."

 

~*~

 

The kiss looms between them as they watch each other; it might be another entity altogether in the small kitchen they share. John can't help the fantasies that prick up in his mind: pressing Sherlock against the wall and sliding against him, unfastening every button on that infernal purple shirt and tasting the length of his collarbone more than once.

Tension crackles over John's skin; he wishes he could read Sherlock's thoughts, see what images fill them.

"So," John says quietly. He shifts in his space, not closer, not away; he just shifts. He feels like they finally, finally might be getting somewhere.

Then Sherlock -- like every dim-witted, thick adolescent male faced with a crisis of emotion -- changes the subject.

"Your tea is getting cold."

It's like wave of cold water over him; all of the heat between them dries up, leaving John feeling like he's gasping for air. Gooseflesh rises along the length of his arms and he wishes now that he wasn't standing here in only a tee shirt.

John steps back, his mind reeling. He's careful not to let his face show anything more than mild surprise, and he casts around for something equally mundane to say. He settles on something he has been wondering, since earlier that evening.

"So, uh, what about that bloody note you gave the bartender?"

"What note?"

"At the pub. You walked in and saw me, then you handed something to the bartender and walked out."

Sherlock thinks for a moment. "Oh, that. That wasn't anything."

"It wasn't ... anything?"

"No, John. I deduced that you'd gone to a pub. With your family history of alcohol dependence, you rarely indulge more than a little, but you have been known to go to the pub when you need a fair distraction. I've not seen you inebriated, but I know that you can over-consume. I didn't know if this was one of those times." Sherlock cocks his head. "And with the day you'd had, with your mistake at the surgery-"

"How can you possibly--" John stops himself. Of course Sherlock knows about that.

"I deduced that a pub would be a likely stop before you were willing to come back to the flat."

"I still don't see what that has to do with--"

Sherlock gives him a look, the look that reminds John how greatly Sherlock strives for the dramatic, for the theatrical. He shuts his mouth and gives Sherlock a small wave of his hand. "Carry on, then."

"John, I didn't know how long you'd be at the pub or what state you'd be in afterward. That's one of the things I don't know about your habits," he looks frustrated with himself at this, "so I couldn't know what to--" Sherlock clears his throat.

"If I didn't know what you were likely to do at or after the pub, I couldn't help you."

That surprises John.

"You wanted to _help_ me?"

"Of course I wanted to help you." Sherlock looks at him strangely. "John, I don't want you to get hurt or," he looks down, "or leave."

John can see Sherlock's pulse thudding in his throat, sees the tight protective purse of his lips. And there it is. Sherlock is surprising him over and over again tonight. He's more emotionally on display than John has ever seen him. There is little possibility that John will ever know everything; he should just accept that Sherlock will continue to surprise him again and again. But John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock admit (in more ways than one) that he likes having John around, that this is a good thing. That they are good - together.

He doesn't grin, not exactly, but he can feel the corners of his mouth turn up slightly as he waits for Sherlock to continue.

"John, all I gave the bartender was a paper with our Baker Street address and a £50 note to pay for a cab."

John bursts out laughing. "That's all? A bloody address and fifty quid." He snorts. It had all seemed so sinister and scheming a few hours ago and yet it was nothing like that. Not at all.

"Christ." John shakes his head, licks his lower lip. "You were being a friend."

"A friend," Sherlock echoes. He appears to test the word out in his mouth for a moment, then smiles, looks back up at John. "I was being a friend."

He looks rather pleased with himself at that.

 

~*~

 

They slide into a companionable silence. John watches Sherlock thinking, can almost feel the thought waves filling the room. He's known Sherlock for long enough now that he knows Sherlock is replaying parts of the day, analysing them for patterns, for details that lead toward his deductions. But he's also _not_ Sherlock, so he doesn't know exactly what he's thinking, what details are significant.

John lets his own mind go, can feel long buried memories mixing with current desires. And he thinks: _what if?_

What if he'd never met Brad, never fell out with Martha? What if, instead, he became a GP who married Martha and had children and moved to Hampstead, without any military service at all?

What if he never walked into that ambush with the infantry all those months ago, never caught a bullet in his shoulder while covering for Sutcliffe as he reloaded his assault rifle? What if he were still in Afghanistan, still half-uncertain that he was doing the right thing, still having haunting nightmares of doubt?

What if he'd never run into Mike Stamford, never met Sherlock, never followed him out into the rain that night, never unflinchingly trusted his brilliance after only a brief meeting? What if he'd never shot the cabbie, never maimed the gangster strangling Sherlock in the tramway, never caught Sherlock around the waist as they'd dived into the pool?

Then he thinks more. What if he kissed Sherlock right now? What if he tangled his fingers in those disorderly curls, cupped the shape of his skull, and tasted every bit of his mouth? What if he reached for his hips, slid his hands over the lines of his arse, and pulled their bodies together? What if he said, _fuck the past_ , and let himself give in to the desires that have been floating inside him, mixing with his blood, pumping under his skin with every pulse of his heart?

John shakes his head at himself, wonders when he got so bloody romantic.

Then he freezes. His heart stops for an entire beat and a half as his vision dims and goes clear and he thinks: _Oh Christ, John Watson, what have you bloody well done now?_

Oh, God. Because when in the crazy, mixed up muddle of the past half-year with Sherlock, when had he fucking fallen in love?

He scrubs his fingers, hard, over his eyes, pressing until the lights spiral behind them. Inconvenient epiphanies are really not what he needs right now.

 _Focus,_ he tells himself. _Bloody well think, you damn fool._

In their months of companionship, John has never seen Sherlock with another person, male or female. He's seen the appreciative looks Sherlock gathers like dust, sees the double-takes of passersby when a tall, be-coated, gorgeous gentleman strides by. Sherlock either is unaware of the looks, or he ignores them.

But if John's memory of 1992 is accurate -- and he's more than certain it is -- then Sherlock isn't as disinterested in sex as he's led John to believe. John's had a bit of a dry spell recently, since... well, if he were being completely honest, since he came back from Afghanistan. It's been a good, long while.

Leaning back against the sink, John stares at the tile mosaic above the demilune table in their kitchen. More than once he's counted the tiles for something to do (one thousand fifty-six at last count), but he isn't counting now. His mind is stuck on something, whirring in the back of his head like an old motor and he needs something soothing that won't distract him too badly. The soothing pattern of green relaxes him, lets him look without really seeing. Now. Now he can focus.

So, 1992, he thinks. He'd met Sherlock (as Brad) in a club, had been attracted to his seemingly wide-eyed beauty and naïveté, because he himself was a bit new to the whole thing. Though, really, neither of them had seemed all that new to things that night. John, sure, he'd pulled plenty in school. It wasn't all that different being with a bloke, you still had to listen to your partner, figure out what felt good, what made them writhe and gasp beneath you. Had it been the same for Sherlock? John knew almost nothing about him before his thirties. Was it likely that Sherlock had had a similar amount of experience?

But, no. No, that didn't make sense. Sherlock had said, on more than one occasion, that he took care of his physical needs when it became necessary, but it wasn't what drove him.

No, what drove him was his work.

Maybe... well, no. Given that even when taking care of his physical needs, Sherlock was highly unlikely to go for something that required too much effort: he slept in a very small portion of his bed, the rest was piled with books; restaurants they went to were one of three things: close, quick, or owned by someone for whom Sherlock had done a favour. It made more sense that Sherlock would choose to remain unfettered by interpersonal entanglements.

So, maybe when the need arose, Sherlock would do exactly what he'd done in 1992: put on a disguise, go to a club and pick someone up, have a sweaty, glorious shag, and then move on as soon as the night was over.

Maybe that's what he does -- has done -- for all of his adulthood.

But then... why hasn't he done recently? Or has he? Every disguise that he's seen Sherlock wear has always been one that John discovers in the moment. And really, John thinks back, if Sherlock had wanted (really wanted) to get off, there were any number of his characters that John would have quite gladly got naked and sweaty with (well, before he knew they were Sherlock). John would have fucked Brian, all those weeks ago in the laundromat, no questions asked.

What had stopped it, then?

John thinks back. He remembers being pushed against the wall, intensely turned on by Brian's (Sherlock's) lips all over his skin. He remembers his hands on Brian's (Sherlock's) hips, the feel of his breath in his ear. John had been ready to pull open his trousers, to feel a different hand on his cock for the first time in ages, but something had stopped them.

Music. Humming. Or the lack of it. Brian (Sherlock) had been humming _In My Life_ , a song he knew to be one of John's favourites, one he knew John would recognise.

John had been ready (so ready) to let his mind slide away into sweat and lips and (god) orgasms, but Sherlock had stopped them. John blinks at the realisation, the tiled wall coming into sharp focus in front of him. It's almost as though the tiles are little mirrors now, showing mini-scenes of all the disguises Sherlock has confronted John with over the past weeks. John can see them all vividly, remembering the draw, the attraction he'd felt to nearly every single one.

And each time, each time they got close to something even remotely intimate, Sherlock would do something, would give John just the right amount of clues to figure out that it was a disguise, which would pull him out of the moment completely.

He frowns at the wall opposite. John's unsure what to deduce from all of this. It seems to be that either Sherlock very clearly doesn't want John, or that he really, desperately does.

 

~*~

 

John blinks, then glances around. He doesn't realize Sherlock has left the kitchen until he finds it empty. He pushes away from the sink, intending to find him, but instead Sherlock emerges through the doorway, clutching one of his leather-bound journals.

He looks intently at John, his eyes flickering down to his mouth and then right back into his eyes.

"John. Tell me about 1992."

"Sherlock, no. I-"

"John."

"I'm not going to dredge things up that I've been trying to forget, just to indulge your morbid curiosity."

"John, I've told you I don't remember the ... experience; hearing your perspective would be very useful to me."

John's skin heats. God, it's like his emotions are on a bloody tether that Sherlock keeps yanking upward, then down, in a pattern that's completely unpredictable.

"What, then? What do you bloody well want to know? You picked me up in the club. I followed you home without any hesitation, is that what you want to hear?" John is so angry, he can feel his fingers clench and release more than once.

"Does that do nice little things for your fucking ego, then? Should I go on? Do you want to hear about all the ways you kissed me, how you pulled off my clothes frantically, how I was so - desperate for you. How your body, your lips, your words, how they all just tangled in my mind until I couldn't think about anything but you?" His voice bottoms out, has to take a quick breath to continue.

"Or maybe, maybe you want to hear about all of the dirty, fantastic things we did? What do you want, Sherlock? Details? Details about your mouth on me, over me, you rocking our cocks together, with my hand over the top until I could barely see? Do you want to hear what you said to me, how I believed every single word of it? Maybe you want to hear how I was so staggered by the whole thing that it barely crossed my mind that it was my first time with another man? Does that get you off? Is that what you bloody well want?"

Sherlock watches him, and John doesn't have the energy to try to read his expression, to try to reason out what he might be feeling.

"My god," he whispers. "I was so into you. I can't even-"

John walks away from Sherlock, directly past him into the living room. He needs to sit down. His mind is reeling (again), and even though it's been a damn long time, he just - can't.

Sherlock is unreservedly quiet. He follows him into the room, sits down in the chair across from John and looks at him. His eyes are gentle, the light in them guarded.

"Sherlock." John says it quietly; his anger has dissipated a little. "Look, I know that you don't remember, that your time as ... Brad is only like a shadow in your memory. But--"

He swallows.

"This is hard. I don't - like talking about it. The whole thing, Sherlock, it _wrecked_ me."

Sherlock lays his journal down on his lap, lets it fall open, then flips to a marked page. He looks back up at John and his voice is barely above a whisper.

"It stopped, John. After you." He points to something written on the pages. "Apparently, after you I didn't do that anymore."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Right, but you didn't do - what?"

Sherlock just looks at him.

"What, go out and fuck random strangers that you met in a club?"

"Well, according to you, we didn't fuck," Sherlock says petulantly.

"Christ, Sherlock, yes we did. Just because no one actually stuck anyone's prick inside--" John pauses for a moment. Sherlock being petulant isn't necessarily out of the ordinary, but it is when he's in a data-gathering mode. Usually he's short, vaguely intolerant, and condescending. It's rare for him to be truly bitchy, particularly with John.

"Okay, fine. So you didn't do that anymore after you did - it with me. Why not?"

"... I have no idea."

"You don't?"

"No," Sherlock lifts the journal, turns it so John can see. "The page is ripped out. I don't remember."

John watches, waits for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, John prods gently, "--and?"

Sherlock sighs. "I wrote it down, kept these journals to keep track of my research. I wrote my findings down so I didn't have to remember the data. It's useless to clutter up my mind after the fact with extra information."

"You deleted them."

"Of course."

"But that one is deleted and not in your journal, so--"

"Exactly. This page is gone. It means," Sherlock looks significantly at him, "it must mean that there was something about that experience that I didn't _want_ to remember."

John doesn't know how to feel about that.

They're quiet for a moment, John thinking about what Sherlock has told him. "So, you keep asking about what happened between us so you can fill in the gaps somehow."

"Obviously."

"Right, Sherlock, give us a chance: I'm just puzzling this out, dammit."

Sherlock waves his hand at John in a clear expression of _carry on_.

"You don't know that my memory of it is necessarily going to give you the data that you're looking for, but ... you're hoping that either it will let you add to the data collection or spark your own memory that wasn't fully deleted."

Sherlock nods at him. "Now that you've exhausted our time with your deductions, can you please tell me what happened in 1992?"

John sighs. "You're lucky you're brilliant," he mutters, "and that I appear to have a bizarrely over-developed fascination for hearing smart things."

He sits back in the chair for a moment, closes his eyes. "So, I'd gone out with some mates to blow off a bit of steam. We were always working too hard, studying too much, and there are only so many hours you can spend learning the names of every bone, organ, and muscle in the body before you're ready to do your nut."

John shakes his head, remembering.

"It was Liam's idea, the club. He'd never been, said it was about time we all got out of our lazy, studious ways, he was gonna shake things up a bit. So, yeah, uh-" John wonders if he's giving enough detail, or maybe too much?

"What did you wear?"

Of course. John has nothing to worry about. Sherlock has no compunction about interrupting to gather whatever information he deems necessary.

"Uh, probably jeans. Most of my clothes were forever in the dirty pile, so I definitely wouldn't have worn any nice trousers or anything. I think my favourites back then were a really faded, snug pair..." John grins, then flushes. He liked them because people always commented favourably on his arse when we wore them.

"I think I wore a black tee shirt, nothing special, probably a comfortable pair of shoes; I wouldn't have worn trainers, not to a club."

"And your hair?" Sherlock asks.

"My hair?"

"Yes, your hair. You're a military man; you keep it short, close cropped. Have you always? Was it lighter then? Darker? Has it been bleached by the Afghan sun? Did you have grey early, still in the same patches you do now?"

"Oh, uh," John reaches up, touches his hair for a minute, thinking. He needs a bit of a trim; it's getting long. "I've mostly kept it relatively short. I tried going long when I was seventeen--" he snorts. "That did not go well. Um... no grey, I didn't notice any grey, not really, until just a couple of years ago. Christ, you ask for a lot of details."

"Anything might be important, John."

"Of course, Sherlock, I'm quite certain that you ripped that page out of your journal because you were scandalised by the premature grey of the lad you pulled on the night in question."

Sherlock looks at him, his gaze unmoving, then breaks into a grin. "Alright, fine. Go on, then."

"Er, right. My hair. It was a little longer, yeah, but not much longer than I have it now. It was thicker then, and a little darker, yeah. Almost a bit of ginger in some light. Do you want me to go on?"

"Of course."

"So, yeah, we went to the club."

"How did you get there? A cab, the tube? A car?"

"Oh, uh, well, I took a cab to Martha's, then caught the tube from there. How is that even--"

"Martha?"

"My - girlfriend."

"You had a girlfriend?"

John swallows. "Well, yeah."

Sherlock looks at him, his gaze probing for a moment; John feels his face heat up a bit.

"I didn't after, though," John says quietly, "after that night."

Sherlock nods briefly, so John continues.

"I met the lads at the club, we had a few drinks and were drinking a fair amount. I remember dancing for a good while; the music was crap but good for moving. All of my mates begged off, one by one, but I didn't want to leave."

John shuts his eyes for a moment, remembering. He opens his eyes and takes a deep breath, looks at Sherlock.

"Things were - hard for me, back then. There was a lot going on all at once. I had a lot I was trying to... forget, that I was trying to let go of. So even after my mates left I didn't want to leave. I sort of wanted to suspend reality for a little while, I guess."

"Is that why you--"

It's odd to have Sherlock let a sentence fall without finishing a thought. But John thinks he's caught Sherlock's meaning, even if Sherlock doesn't quite.

"I don't think so, no. No, I can't explain it, but when I saw Brad -- well, _you_ \-- I just felt something."

"Had you been attracted to men before?"

"Christ, Sherlock, you're worse than the police."

"John, I'm just trying to establish--"

"Yes, yes, I know what you're trying to do. I'm just commenting on your wonderfully tactless approach to doing so."

John takes a breath, licks his lip. "So... yes, I think I had been attracted to men before, but I don't think - well, I don't think it was something I was necessarily consciously aware of. More that, well, looking back on it, I can think about blokes I thought about, wanted to be around, stuff like that, and recognise it now for what it was, even if I didn't know it at the time."

Sherlock's gaze is unblinking. Sometimes his focus can be a bit unnerving.

"Go on."

"Uh, the club," John tries to remember where he had left off. "Well, so I think I was by myself at that point, still dancing, or maybe I'd stepped off to cool down a bit, and then I saw - you.

"Christ, you were gorgeous. Fit and ginger and so damn tall. Your hair was curly, falling into your face, but intentionally so. You were a mix of, well, shy and deliberate. You looked at me like you--" this feels peculiar coming out of his mouth, "like you hadn't seen anyone like me before in your life and I - I couldn't resist you."

John doesn't look at Sherlock; he can't.

"I had no idea what I wanted, hadn't even thought ahead to what it might mean to go over and chat you up, but I went anyway. I swear it was like being hit by a truck. I couldn't take my eyes off of you, and you - you watched me the whole way across the floor. I'd never felt so--"

John stops talking for a minute, sees Sherlock watching him, gnawing absently on his fingertip.

"I'm being too detailed, I think. You probably just want to know the actual facts, the actions, yes?"

"No, no, John. This is ... good."

"Okay, right. Right, well then I came over and tried chatting you up, you led me into the gents, I pushed you into a stall and we snogged until I could barely breathe." John swallows. "Then you asked me home with you and I didn't think twice."

"I asked you to come home with me?"

"Yeah."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, trust me. This is something I'm quite sure about."

"Interesting." Sherlock's face has a curious light to it.

"We went to your flat -- at least I had assumed it was your flat -- and snogged against the door for a long time. I wanted you so badly. Then I asked if you wanted to get more comfortable and you brought me into your bedroom and well--"

John can feel his face heating again. "We did - a lot of things."

Sherlock hasn't moved at all.

"Then, well, after a long time we - finished. Then we went to sleep and--"

"We fell asleep together? In my bed?"

"Yeah. Sherlock, you do realise that you are clarifying the oddest parts to this story, yes?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, just slides his finger along the ragged edges of the torn page in his journal, thinking.

John watches him: the pensive way he's touching the torn journal, the slight crease in his eyebrows, the shape of his lips when they're pursed in thought. He traces the line of Sherlock's lips with his eyes, the same way he'd traced them with his fingers, his own lips, his tongue, all those years ago.

Sherlock's mouth is Brad's mouth, with subtle variations, but they slide together in his memory and John remembers what it was like to feel them crushed against his own, wet and pliant... what it was like to breathe the half pants and the luscious words Brad whispered into his mouth. John watches, enthralled. God help him, but he wants. So desperately.

But, he... No. This is not where things are going. John can't let himself fall back into the same state of mind he'd developed back when he was in school. He's not that young anymore, not a love-struck medical student.

This is real life, real _adult_ life, and he needs to get a bloody grip. John feels like he's run a marathon of emotion in a short period of time: from the belief that Sherlock was attracted to him, to Sherlock kissing him, to the way Sherlock doused that hope with a heavy dose of reason, to the dissection of Sherlock's motives enough to come up with something so completely convoluted that John is no longer sure it makes sense anymore.

Then he realises: it's all about Sherlock. It's all Sherlock's actions, Sherlock's questions, Sherlock dictating the conversation... Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. It's enough to make him--

"--John?"

John looks at Sherlock, blinks a moment to clear his head. Sherlock has obviously said his name more than once.

"There's a lot about what you've told me that doesn't follow my pattern."

"Your pattern?"

Sherlock points to his journal, jabs at it. "My pattern. What I would do on those nights."

"Oh." John's heart speeds up a little. "How so?"

Sherlock ignores the question. "Tell me, John. How did it - end?"

John takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and thinks back, tries to distil that awful twenty minutes into the barest of facts. His stomach is lead, his limbs too heavy for his body. Just as he's about to answer Sherlock quickly and succinctly, a phone pierces the air.

They both look at each other. No one would call this late but for Lestrade. John nods briefly and Sherlock pulls it out of his pocket and up to his ear. He listens, mutters a few things in response, then looks up at John with his eyes shining.

"Serial killer. Farringdon."

Sherlock is already grabbing for his coat as he speaks; he has one hand on the door.

"Are you coming?" he asks John, then hesitates for a moment. John can see him thinking, though he has no idea what.

"John, I - want you to come."

John's grin is wide across his face as he rises for his jacket.

Of course he wants to come.

 

~*~


	4. Chapter 4

By the third stop on their crime solving marathon, John is distinctly unsettled. The night club at Farringdon was one thing (not that John hasn't been to night clubs since 1992, but standing next to Sherlock in the middle of one had brought back far too many tangled memories). The stop in one of the classrooms at St. Bart's (John has, quite literally, not stood in one since he was a student) was a bit uncomfortable, but standing in the middle of the pavement in the same bloody neighbourhood that Sherlock's flat had been in 1992 (where they'd been naked and gasping against each other for hours) is downright disconcerting.

It has to be a coincidence, though. Murders happen at nightclubs more often than people admit, and the fact that one of the victims had been a student at St. Bart's is statistically likely to happen at some point.

John steps away for a moment, breathes through his mouth. It's not the night club, or St. Bart's, or even the neighbourhood, really. It must be the combination of all three that's making John's head swim. He has got to either get away, or distract himself somehow.

So he walks over to Sergeant Donovan and offers a few of his observations, to which she frowns, then nods, and tells him that he'd best be utilised where he can 'keep the freak reined in as much as possible.' Taking a deep breath, John walks over to where Sherlock is questioning one of the suspects. He pays only the very barest of attention to what Sherlock is asking, instead letting his mind go soft for a moment.

Sherlock had been eagerly restless in the cab on the way here, had looked at John with his eyes bright and his smile deliriously wide. "John, this is brilliant! A serial killer who leaves Shakespearean clues on body parts."

Which, really, should make things better. There had been absolutely no Shakespeare involved in their, er -- god, what does he even call it? -- tryst in 1992. No romantic sonnets quoted while lips tickled soft skin. No comparing hair colours or sparkles in eyes to summer's days or any of that rot. No, it had just been slippery bodies pressed together, whispered desires in the heat of passion. It had been everything John hadn't known he'd wanted until he found it in the arms of a complete stranger.

He sighs, then shakes his head and tries to pull himself together. He tunes back into the conversation Sherlock is having with the witness.

"No, mate, it weren't all them," the bloke is saying to Sherlock. John can see Sherlock bristle at the reprehensible grammar, but surprisingly he says nothing. "Only Jamie went to Bart's, the rest of us aren't even gone to school."

"Obviously."

John grins to himself. One of London's finest, clearly.

"Nah, he were the smart one of us. He went to public school, then when he got in here we all teased 'im like it weren't his business. Smart bloke like him, gonna be a doctor, still hanging with the likes of us."

Sherlock nods at him.

The witness sighs. "Jamie were the smart one. He were gonna be something. It just isn't - fair." His voice trembles a little, so John steps forward, places his hand on his shoulder. Presses his lips together in a sympathetic smile.

Sherlock taps his fingers on his knees impatiently, clearly waiting for that particular display of emotion to be over.

"We were just havin' a lad's night out, yeah? Jamie wanted to see us, so we came in here, picked him up and we went to the club. It weren't until there was a bird flirting with him and they disappeared for a bit that we even noticed something was wrong."

"Who found him?"

"...I done it." He pauses a moment. "I came out to have a smoke and went into the alleyway so no coppers would see me--" he looks panicked for a moment, so John reassures him that he won't be in trouble for it.

"Yeah, so then I saw him... just laying there all unnatural-like with those words on 'im." He shudders.

Sherlock nods at him, presses his palms against his thighs and stands up, then his coat swirls and he walks away.

"You were really brave to do something, to call the police," John says quietly. "We'll let you know if we need anything else."

The witness (John doesn't even know his name) smiles sadly. "I just hope they find her, the one that done it."

"They will," John assures him. With Sherlock Holmes on the case, it's a near certainty.

 

~*~

 

Twenty minutes later they've spoken to Lestrade twice, Sherlock has attacked his Blackberry with ridiculously fast fingers, and has also managed to offend two other witnesses with his questions.

He steps away, ignoring John, Lestrade, and the entirety of Lestrade's team as he works furiously at his Blackberry. After a tense few minutes, Sherlock looks up.

"Of course!"

He strides over to Lestrade, and shows him something on his screen triumphantly. When Lestrade looks at him blankly, Sherlock turns to John.

"Do you see?"

"Just tell us, Sherlock," John says gently. "I suspect you're the only one that sees the pattern."

"All of the murders two streets apart; two men, then two women, then two men again?" Sherlock looks around at them, then sighs. "I don't know how you all manage to get yourselves dressed in the mornings. Rhyming couplets! Everything is in twos. The murderer has chosen a Shakespearean couplet and is choosing his victims based on that."

John listens as Sherlock continues the explanation, marvelling (again) at his brilliance, at his ability to look at everyday, ordinary things and see so far into them and be -- almost always -- so spot on in his deductions that it's almost ridiculous.

And yet, he can be so spectacularly ignorant of things that are right in front of him.

John's phone buzzes, so he sighs and steps away to look at the text. It's Harry. Drunken texting again. He shuts his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to compose a relatively innocuous reply.

After replying, John is assaulted by an overly familiar smell. There must be a similar restaurant nearby, because something about the mix of everything around him has triggered his sense memory and John is back in 1992: tangled with Brad, kissing and kissing and kissing, their bodies and breath mingling as John tries to climb inside the feeling that envelops him.

 

 **November 1992**

 

"John, oh god ... John."

John shifts their bodies again, pulls Brad up until he's sitting, then climbs upward, kneeling to straddle Brad's lap and wrap his arms around his back. Brad's body is warm (so warm) against him and John's mind works against itself to find enough poetic adjectives to describe the idyllic sweetness that courses through him.

They kiss again and again until John can't tell the difference between them, he can only taste the flavour of the two of them mingled together on his tongue like a delicate fruit.

John rocks up onto his knees, then down slowly, Brad's body a silky pressure against his. They are touching in so many places; John can barely separate the feel of skin and sweat and hair. He arches into the sting of nails digging into his buttocks and drags their cocks together deliberately. Brad's eyes seem to roll back in his head for a moment; his eyelids flutter rapidly.

"John, John, oh god ... you're so good."

 _Good._

All his life people have called him that: good student, good at sport, a good lad. Good, good, good. John hasn't rebelled against it, not really, but hearing it fall from Brad's (glorious) lips makes John actually want to match it. It finally feels like something he can do.

John leans forward and kisses Brad's sweaty temple. He drags his lips over the wet skin as though his only way of recording memory is through skin. "We're good," he breathes, right into his ear, then nips his earlobe gently.

"We _are_ ," Brad agrees, sucking on John's lower lip. "So good."

 

~*~

 

After a moment, John blinks, embarrassed. He can't imagine what his face must have looked like just now. He had been miles away. Glancing over at Sherlock, he sees him frozen on the pavement, a few feet away.

Sherlock's nose is in the air; he has clearly caught the scent of something. Sherlock spins once, looking around, then he pauses again, his body strangely immobile.

As John watches, he can see Sherlock's eyes broaden. Sherlock gasps out loud then closes his eyes for the briefest moment. When he opens them he searches for John. Their gaze catches and holds until John can feel it stretching a taut line between them. Desire ignites under his skin and John wants to ignore all social convention. Sherlock looks at John hungrily, takes a step forward.

God.

John feels more exposed now than he had at the end of that (brilliant, unfortunate) night in 1992.

"You remember," he says quietly to Sherlock.

"I do now."

John nods, licks his lip, shifts from one foot to the other. He wants... well, he doesn't know quite what he wants, just that he _does_ want. Badly. He just doesn't know what to do about it.

"Sherlock," he says, his voice steadier than he would have believed possible. "Sherlock, I--"

But Sherlock holds up his hand, shakes his head. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, and he swallows more than once.

"John, I don't know what you--" his voice cracks, John hears him clear his throat. "John... I. I _can't_."

The lights of the police cars flash over his face, making it seem even paler whenever a light blinks off. His nose flares for a moment and his lips look darker than John's ever seen them.

John doesn't move.

After a few long seconds, Sherlock wraps his coat more tightly around himself, turns on his heel, and strides down the road.

John watches him walk away, something he feels like he's done far too much today, but he will give him one thing: even though he just blatantly turned John down (again) Sherlock never broke John's gaze.

Not once.

 

~*~

 

John doesn't go back to the flat right away. He can't. It's been, possibly, the strangest, most fucked-up day of his entire life and John has absolutely zero desire to walk into Baker Street and let everything burst back into his consciousness again.

And yet.

It's as though he can't get away from it, no matter where he goes. His mind reels backward into the past, against his will.

God, and the whole bloody night in 1992 had been so romantic, so tinged with soppy, rose-coloured lenses that John is almost embarrassed to remember. In some ways, he barely recognises the John Watson from that night. He had been so unintentionally guarded back then: going through relationships, through one night stands in what he'd always thought was the right way, the way everyone did.

And then Brad.

Brad had pulled down his invisible defences, had ripped John open until his heart was exposed and beating, a lascivious exhibitionist for Brad's affections. Brad had pulled all of John's emotions to the surface with a single kiss, with a few appreciative words, with his blinding smile, his overarching acceptance. John had opened for him completely, he'd let Brad inside: into his blood, his heart, his bones... until even their breath existed in tandem.

And it had all been for shit.

John sighs heavily, walking without direction, turning corners at random.

The John Watson after that night had been quite intentionally guarded. John can't remember seeing anyone -- even for a single one night stand -- for a good eighteen months after that. He just - couldn't. It was easier to get himself off when the need demanded it than try to put himself through something that might shatter him again.

He knows this. He's not that stupid. John knew it before he'd started seeing a therapist. He'd even been accused of such conscious distance by several short-lived partners afterward: brilliant, gorgeous women (and men) to whom he could never open up more than a little, who pitied him because (they said) he could never let himself feel anything more than the most surface-level of emotion.

John shakes his head, turns another corner and bumps headlong into another pedestrian. He apologises profusely to the woman, briefly noting her smile, the confident way she walks, but he can't really focus when he's this far in his head. The night breeze is harsh here, and the chill pulls his mind back into the present. He looks up; half a laugh huffs out his nose when he realises that he's standing at the end of Baker Street.

Of course. All of his paths, every journey keeps leading him back to Sherlock.

Here he is now, forty-one years old, with the first person in more than seventeen years that excites him, that pushes him constantly, that makes him feel so gloriously unseated... and it's _the same damn person_ that it was all those years ago.

 

~*~

 

John doesn't go inside. He walks past the door to 221b, past all of the places they've hailed cabs, down the pavement they've run innumerable times before. John walks and walks and tries to let his mind wander to something -- anything -- else.

But when he really thinks about it, why should he? His life is so full now... yeah, of course he'd like to be a bit more employed than a few shifts here and there at the surgery, but every corner with Sherlock is something new, something different. John feels necessary again. Necessary in a way that doesn't feel like it's a load of polite bollocks.

In another block he passes the laundromat where he'd met Brian and stops for a moment. The memory is still clear: smiling, flirting, lips over skin against the door of the loo.

He keeps walking, turns another corner. There's barely anyone on the pavement this time of night; it's so late. In another twenty steps, John is in front of the coffee shop where he met Kate.

The storefront is deserted, mostly dark. Gentle lights from the pastry case and the fire exit door give it a warm glow inside, but it's clearly been closed for hours. John stands there for a long time. This was the first (of many) places Sherlock tried to fool him with one of his disguises.

Try as he might though, John can no longer muster the anger, the frustration over Sherlock's attempts at deceit with his disguises. Instead, and as usual, John amazes at Sherlock's talent, his ability, his sheer bloody brilliance. He looks inside the darkened coffee shop and feels... fortunate.

He runs his thumb along the pads of his fingers and wonders: what if? What if he'd taken the flirtation with Kate even further? What if he'd ignored the familiar tickle in his brain when Brian stopped humming _In My Life_? What if he'd done exactly what was running through his mind and kissed him deeply?

John can imagine it: slippery, bruising, perfect. Time would slow down; he'd feel every inch of the kiss. It would fill the room until it squeezed all of the air out in its stead. They would gasp and clutch at each other, pressing together until there wasn't a bit of space between them anywhere.

He closes his eyes and sighs. He's torn between wanting his ignorance back, between wanting to do something to shock Sherlock into some damn action, between wanting somehow to mend this chasm inside him that John's been trying to hold together for so bloody long now.

If a genie were to appear now, right now, John can't decide what he'd request from any of his three wishes. But he knows that all of them would somehow include--

"John."

Sherlock stands there, a silhouette against the streetlight, his shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He must have been running.

John looks at him, doesn't say anything.

"Let's go home," Sherlock says.

 

~*~

 

John doesn't think to look at the clock as they walk in, but it's got to be well past three o'clock in the morning. Somehow though, Sherlock seems to define time in his own terms; John doesn't feel tired at all.

A few hours ago, Sherlock had been quizzing him mercilessly about their night together in 1992, a time that Sherlock remembered only in small bits. But now...

Turnabout is fair play, John thinks wryly to himself. He sits down and looks at Sherlock earnestly.

"So, tell me about 1992."

Sherlock pauses, presses his palms together and looks over John's shoulder for a long moment. His eyes flicker to the journals that are still stacked on the floor at his feet, then back to John.

"A lot happened in 1992. Things came to a bit of a - peak."

"Well," John can't decide if he wants to hear all of it, or have Sherlock keep his speech focused on the events of their night together from that November. "Do you want to tell me all of it or just, uh, just the part with me?"

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, looks him up and down. He's obviously deducing something from John's appearance, but John has no idea what.

"You want me to start with that night."

"I really have no idea what I want, Sherlock."

"Well, that's not entirely true."

"Sherlo--"

"Fine." Sherlock begins to list things in that dizzying way he has of speaking, that anyone else might simply tick things off on their fingers.

"I went to a club to find someone for a quick sexual encounter. I found you. I brought you home with me; I disrobed entirely and helped you do the same. I kissed you in approximately forty-six places on your body until my lips were sore; I listened to every word that came out of your mouth that night. We engaged in several forms of frottage, fellatio, and hand stimulation, but never had penetrative sex. I didn't censor any of the things I said to you. Once we'd both finally achieved release I let you sleep in my bed and then I fell asleep right next to you, as close as I could get."

Sherlock frowns. John watches him, tries to read his face, but Sherlock has closed it off again. Even his eyes are flat.

"You said that I didn't fit your pattern."

"None of what I previously stated fit my pattern, John."

Something warm alights inside John's abdomen; he wants to move forward, to touch Sherlock... anywhere.

"You didn't do that with anyone else?"

"Of course not, John. It was all an experiment, all data gathering."

"What _did_ you do, then?"

"I studied the police logs, read the newspapers, got involved in whatever the police would let me in for -- which was very little," Sherlock frowns a little. "More than thirty percent of all crimes committed in London have a sexual nature to them. If I were to understand, to learn more about the acts themselves, the physical prowess involved, the reality, then I'd have that much more data at my disposal."

"No, I meant what did you do with the other people? The ones that you-- well, fucked."

"Oh," Sherlock looks surprised. "The usual, I guess: got high, went on the pull, found a person that didn't disinterest me, had a sexual encounter with them in the loo, made an excuse and left, updated my notes, got high and started again."

A 'sexual encounter.' Trust Sherlock to keep everything so clinical. John smiles to himself, but freezes a little when he sees Sherlock's cocked head.

"You want to know _what_ I did with the subjects."

"Um, not really, Sherlock. No, I wasn--"

But Sherlock ignores him.

"Fellatio, sodomy, mutual masturbation, all those things, John. I needed a wide selection of experiences from which to draw the data, obviously."

"Obviously." It hasn't escaped John's notice that Sherlock referred to them as subjects. That he, too, had been a goddamn subject, someone from whom Sherlock could draw data.

"I gathered a lot of data that year, John."

"So why the disguises, then?"

"Research. It served two purposes. I was gathering data on sexual activity, but it also gave me the chance to observe others unnoticed, to try out different personalities that might help me in talking to other people. You may be aware," Sherlock says, looking at John, "but people aren't always that forthcoming to me when I ask them questions."

"Really," John says wryly. "I hadn't noticed."

"Well," Sherlock actually grins at him, "I've got better. If you can believe it, I used to be a lot worse."

"On the contrary. I find that remarkably easy to believe."

They don't say anything for a moment, but the silence is real, companionable. John scrubs his lip after a minute, then asks another question.

"So, the disguises I really do understand. You could go back to the same place night after night and always be a different person, gather a wealth of... erm, data, that way. But - why the drugs?"

"John, the drugs let down my defences, allowed me get through a night like a normal person, my mind focused on feeling, sensation ... it didn't get bogged down with too much extraneous analysis. Then afterward I could record everything, delete it from my working memory with another dose, and have a clear mind for the next subject."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Mmm?"

"A clear mind?" John says. "I'm not sure I'd choose that phrase exactly to describe what the drugs would do for your mind."

"No, John it was. It was _wonderful_. I didn't have too much cluttering up my mind; everything was streamlined, focused into just what mattered."

"So, alright, then." But Sherlock is still talking all around what happened with John. He's tired of this level of detective work. It's bloody exhausting. "But, what happened with me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock swallows, glances up to the ceiling, to the floor, even over to the fireplace. He refuses to catch John's eye.

"I didn't think, John. _Me._ I just fell blindly into your captivating smile and I didn't think about it for a minute. I couldn't stop kissing you, didn't _want_ to stop kissing you; everything about you fogged my mind completely. Always before that I had been in complete control, even with the drugs. There were things I wouldn't do: parameters and protocols I set up for myself to make sure every set of data was reliable."

He pauses for a long moment, still doesn’t look up. "I broke every one of them with you."

Realisation dawns sharply inside him; John takes a slow breath before he speaks.

"You - liked it."

"God yes, every minute." Sherlock finally looks at him, his eyes wide, exposed. "I liked _you_."

Jesus.

"I liked you so much that I couldn't - think." Sherlock looks undone by this idea, that there might actually be something in the world that could get in the way of his mind, of his deductions.

"So then why did you-" John swallows, his voice goes quiet. "Why did you make me leave?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"What? Sherlock, no. You can't just - stop."

"Of course I can. What good is this conversation accomplishing anyway? There's no mystery, no clues to deduce. We both know what happened; there's no need to discuss it further."

"No, Sherlock, that's not--"

"Don't act like there's some deeper, significant meaning here, John. You know what happened."

"No, Sherlock, I don't." John pushes himself out of the chair and glares at him. He paces across the room for a moment, then comes back and grips the back of the seat tightly. "I know that we had a good -- a _damn good_ \-- night. I know what you felt like against me, the way you kissed, what it did to me when you looked at me with those soft eyes. I know what it felt like to fall asleep next to you, content, for one of the only times in my life--" he doesn't know why all of these words _words_ words are spilling from his lips, but it's almost as if something has erupted inside him. He can't stop.

"What I _don't_ know, Sherlock, is what changed between the time I made you come," John knows he's being crass now, but he doesn't care, "and the time we woke up tangled together and you kicked me the fuck out of your flat. With no explanation. Apparently you can ask me all the questions you want, but as soon as it's my turn all bets are off. Well, congratulations, Sherlock. For the world's only consulting detective, you're bloody awful at deducing anything about yourself."

"John."

But John is the one to hold up his hand this time. He can't. He walks out of the sitting room silently, through the kitchen and down the short corridor to the loo. Gripping the sink, John looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes are wide, the skin under them discoloured; he needs sleep. He is in desperate need of a shave and he's rather a bit paler than usual.

Switching the water on and letting it run, John plugs the sink and reaches for a towel that he tucks into his waistband. When the sink is about half full, he dunks his face into the water, the cold shocking his system and numbing the apprehension inside him for just a moment. He keeps his face submerged in the water for far longer than necessary, until he really needs to take a breath, then pulls his face out, twists off the water, and scrubs the towel over his face roughly.

His face is reddened from the coarse fabric and he looks back at his own wide eyes in the mirror.

"So," he asks his reflection desperately, "what in the bloody hell do I do now?"

 

~*~

 

After a few (long) moments, John takes a deep breath and pushes away from the mirror. He hangs up the towel, straightens a few things around the room, doesn't look at the door. He's obviously looking for reasons not to go back through the kitchen, through the sitting room.

So he doesn't.

John drops the toilet lid down, sits down heavily, and breathes. All of Sherlock's words are still spinning in his head. He is still stuck on the fact that Sherlock had liked their time together, that the desperate feelings John had felt between them in 1992 hadn't been only in his imagination. The realisation that, for Sherlock, John had been something new, something more than just a convenient fuck for data gathering purposes.

Well, and what if he had? What if John _had_ been a quick fuck, something without the range of intensity involved, but just a quick one off in the loo? Would he still have been so wrecked by the entire thing? Was it the fact that it was his first time with a man that had thrown things into such a tailspin?

Or was it that it had been with Sherlock?

Was that it? Was it the feelings involved, the intensity of what they were together and the subsequent (inexplicable) rejection that threw his life into such a dizzying spiral? Was it the rejection of something he thought could be more?

The thing is, though... John knows exactly what it was. For the first (for the only) time in his life, with Brad, he'd felt something greater, something deeper that he couldn't explain. He'd never before realised the magic in need, the truth in desire. For the first time in his life, John had fallen in love. After only a few bloody hours.

He bites his lip, shakes his head in disbelief.

Who does that?

 

~*~

 

Eventually he does stand up, does open the door.

He knows his own reasons, but still doesn't know Sherlock's. Now, even after Sherlock has confessed to his own perception of that night, John is still terribly confused by why Brad (Sherlock) had made him leave. If what Sherlock said were true, he had felt so many of the same things John had during that night. It hadn't been an act; it had been real.

So, why then, why had he made him leave? It seems so incongruous to the hours preceding that moment. John understands so much more now: what Sherlock had been doing back in 1992, why Sherlock had been at the club, why everything between them had felt the way it did. But, and for the life of himself, he cannot figure out what changed between the warm, sated moments when they drifted to sleep tangled together and when they awoke later to Brad (Sherlock) twigging out completely.

John sighs, unsure of what he should do right now. He knows he can't hide in the bathroom any longer. He walks into the sitting room, sees Sherlock in the exact same position he was in when John left.

Sherlock looks up as he walks in.

"Mycroft."

"What?"

"The answer to your previous question. Mycroft."

John has to rewind a little bit. It's been a good half hour since he was out here talking to Sherlock and it takes him a moment to catch up.

"Wait, what? Mycroft didn't make me leave."

"No. I made you leave because of Mycroft."

"Christ, Sherlock, can't you ever just answer a direct question?"

"I am answering, which you would see if you'd stop your inane interruptions and assumptions."

"So I asked you why you made me leave and you're telling me that the answer is Mycroft?"

"Precisely."

"That makes absolutely no sense at all."

John frowns at Sherlock. Sherlock looks back at him, takes a deep, almost sarcastic breath.

"Mycroft had no need to know."

"Okay..." John walks around the chair and sits down across from Sherlock. He tries to follow Sherlock's line of thinking, where he could possibly be going with this. "So you told me before that you and Mycroft used to argue about--" _what was it?_ John has to think back. "You argued about predicting behaviour and aliens and emotions... was that it?"

A slow smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "Something like that."

"Well, so, what was it, then?" John's been deducing Sherlock's behaviour and reasoning at different times all night. He's not quite sure he's capable of continuing at -- he glances at the clock -- nearly half four in the morning. "I'm rather certain there were no aliens around during that night in 1992, so that's right out."

Sherlock nods.

"So which one, then? Emotions or behaviour? You've got to give me something here, Sherlock. It's either far too late or far too early to be having this conversation, really."

Sherlock frowns. He presses the tips of his fingers together under his chin, then crosses and folds them, biting on his thumb. That's quite odd, actually. Reminds John of something he might do.

"So I told you before that I'm able to predict human behaviour."

"Well, yes. But we didn't actually agree on whether or not you can."

"Well, Mycroft and I, back in 1992 had had that argument countless times over the course of the previous six years. I'd been in a lot of positions to observe, to predict, but it had only been that year that I'd been able to directly experiment and determine whether it was, indeed, the case. I was in a position to gather a fair amount of data in so many areas that year." His eyes seem to shine with the memory.

John thinks about that for a moment. "Oh, alright, yeah. You hadn't lived on your own before that?"

"Correct."

"So?"

"Well, at that time, Mycroft was besotted with a woman he'd met through the office, constantly calling her, purchasing flowers and other trinkets for her, copying poetry onto fine stationary for her," Sherlock purses his lips. "Generally, being entirely revolting about the whole thing."

John smirks. He's not quite sure whether he can imagine Mycroft in love -- or whether he even wants to.

"Well, his behaviour was quite different than it had been in the past, which brought up a new debate for us: could one separate emotion from behaviour, indeed, could someone keep their emotions from influencing their behaviour? Mycroft said it wasn't possible. I told him he was full of - well," Sherlock grins for a moment, his eyes amused in memory.

"Well, I said something quite off-colour, shall we say. I used far less refined language back then."

John laughs aloud. "Wish I'd been there to hear it. And see his reaction."

"It wasn't quite what you might have expected. He was used to my 'gauche street language' by then. It barely fazed him."

"Well, so what, then? I do realise this sibling rivalry has probably been going on since you were born, but I don't see how that would--"

Sherlock's look is barely restrained exasperation, most likely with John's ability to 'see' but not to 'observe.' But, well--

"Dammit, Sherlock, it's late. Just. Explain."

Sherlock glances up at the ceiling for a moment, then over John's shoulder, then back at him. "For months, I kept detailed notes on my subjects, as you know. Even with those for whom I felt an attraction, I had no problem remaining detached from the experiences: I was able to record, delete, and start again, sometimes even within the same night."

Sherlock absently picks up one of his leather bound journals. "I was even able to make some mental predictions of the behaviour of those whom I could tell might have some strong potential emotion toward me. And I was right. Every time."

"How... er," John isn't sure he wants to ask this question, but he does. "How many in all?"

"One hundred forty-seven."

"Christ, Sherlock, _that many_?" The doctor in him shudders. "I hope you were safe, used protection. Especially back then. God, it's a wonder you didn't..."

"Of course I was safe. I was collecting data, John. Not sexually transmitted diseases." Sherlock thumbs idly through his journal, not looking at it, just touching the pages at random. "So now do you see why I felt wholly confident in my conclusions?"

"I can see why you felt confident, yes, not that I agree with your deductions, though."

"Yes, John, we've already established that."

"Actually, Sherlock, we've established a lot of things so far tonight. Probably more than I ever thought two people could establish in such a short period of time," he sighs. "And yet, it's been nearly an hour since I asked you a relatively simple question and you've done nothing but talk around it the entire time."

Sherlock looks wounded. "Is there a problem?"

"A problem?" John is incredulous. "You know, Sherlock. I put up with a lot; I really do. I do the washing. I do the shopping. I make food. I tidy up the place as best I can with your infuriating experiments cluttering every surface, including some of the more unbelievable ones. I do it because I like you, because we're friends. And because I don't -- well most of the time I don't -- _mind_ doing it."

He stands, paces across the room. "I like following you around, helping you on cases, being a sounding board. I've learned so much from you in the past months; you always surprise me with how much you see, but... Christ, Sherlock, I asked you one bloody question, and you can't even answer it. What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong?" Sherlock's eyes flash. "What is _wrong_ with me? I wasn't the one who threw all of my data into the toilet, John. I didn't saunter into the club back in 1992 with my tight jeans and my flashing smile and dance without a care in the world."

Sherlock is still talking, but John can't move.

"I didn't singlehandedly discount one hundred forty-six pieces of carefully collected and organised data with a single look, with a grin that made me think that my brain had fogged indefinitely, John. I didn't pull my clothes off and kiss me everywhere and make me forget everything I'd been working on except for the glorious vision of what was right in front of me."

Sherlock pushes out of his chair, stands to his full height.

"Why do you _think_ I made you leave? I wasn't about to throw away months of carefully collected research, admit to my brother I'd been _wrong_ ," Sherlock's lip curls in distaste, "and all because some bloke in a club one night distracted me, got under my skin, made me forget everything I'd been doing?"

"So you - you made me leave because you... _felt_ something for me?" John is incredulous. "What the hell?"

Sherlock's voice lowers. "Of course I made you leave. I couldn't have that happen again."

John's hand itches, clenching and unclenching. What he wants, what he wants more than anything right now, is the satisfying crunch of his fist hitting flesh. He wants to rush across the room, grasp Sherlock's arms, wants to shake him bodily until he's as angry as John. He wants to wound, to hurt... something, anything to take the sting out of the fury that churns inside him.

"John."

"Fuck you."

" _John._ "

"No. _Fuck you_ , Sherlock." John throws up his hands. "I'm done here. I do hope you enjoy your carefully constructed tower of stunted emotion. It's clearly where you live best."

John turns on his heel and slams the door to the sitting room behind him. He treads heavily up the stairs and slams his bedroom door as well, the sound nowhere near as loud as he means it to be.

Fury curls inside him, deeper, tighter than it was before. He feels betrayal painted all over his skin. All those years ago. All that pain, that doubt, that uncertainty. It hadn't been anything he'd done. How many times had he gone over that night in his mind, trying to find where he'd bollixed everything up, the mistake he'd made that had suddenly turned Brad's switch from hot to cold.

It hadn't been anything he'd done. Well, nothing other than finding the one bloke in all of London who was afraid of his goddamn feelings.

John tears off his shirt, pulls off his shoes, socks, and trousers. His skin is hot; it feels like it's crawling with dust, piled with inches of regret. John switches off the light and slides into bed in his boxers. He doesn't want to think about a proper pair of pyjamas right now; all he wants is to go to sleep and forget this bloody night ever happened.

If only he were able to delete things the way a certain infuriating someone was able to.

 

~*~

 

John dreams again.

It doesn't take long for him to realise that this time is a dream, and god, he doesn't want to wake up. Not from this.

Brad smiles down at him, his fingers tangled with John's above his head. Leaning down, he nuzzles under John's ear, licks his neck, and blows across the wet line.

"Tell me how that feels."

"It feels like... god, Brad, it feels bloody amazing. Every part of you against me." John rocks up again, the shock of pleasure spreading through his spine. "God, I could do this forever."

Brad pulls his head up, looks down at John again with soft eyes.

"Alright," he says quietly. "Let's."

 

~*~

 

The next dream isn't fully formed, fuzzy around the edges. John watches Brad sleep, sees the gentle rise and fall of his chest, keeps his hand on the warm skin of Brad's waist.

John is ridiculously content. In a few minutes, Brad opens his eyes, blinks two or three times, then smiles broadly when he sees John watching him.

"Morning," he says huskily.

"Morning," John whispers.

"What time is it?"

"Just after five. I have to go in an hour or two, get my books. I have class this morning."

"And after?"

John smiles. "Well, that - depends."

"On?"

"On what you're doing."

"I'll be here."

"I have to revise a bit. Got an exam coming up."

"I'll help."

"You - will?"

"Definitely."

John beams at him. "Yeah, alright, then. I'll come back after."

"But for now..." Brad slides closer. "You said you don't have to leave for another hour."

A rush of affection slides through his abdomen and John licks his lips. "Oh? What did you have in mind?"

Brad grins at him. "Oh... _lots_ of things."

John sort of can't wait to find out.

 

~*~

 

When John wakes the sun is high. It must be well past noon. But after being up for most of the night it doesn't bother him. He's curled around his pillow, the duvet tucked between his knees. This isn't John's normal sleeping position. He's a light sleeper, usually on his back or right side, rarely uses pillows, and can wake and be alert almost immediately.

But the slow spread of dreams is still fresh within him and John closes his eyes to hang onto the feeling. Only with Brad had John ever slept close, their bodies pressed together from knees through chest.

John tucks his chin into the fluff of the pillow and sighs. Reality threatens to spread around him; John wills it away for a few more minutes. If anything, he wants to stay in the warmth of muzzy sleep, secure in the knowledge that someone desperately wants (well, _wanted_ , past tense) him.

His body stirs at the thought, and John rolls onto his back. Immediately Brad is there above him, smiling that crooked soft smile and pushing his thumb along John's hairline. John smiles back, throws off the duvet, and arches up against him.

He reaches for Brad's face, touches his lips, the line of his jaw. In front of his eyes, Brad's hair changes: darkens deeply and adjusts its shape. The curls spread in a cloud across his forehead, framing his paling face. When John gasps, Brad's eyes slide from a dark green into the familiar iridescent green that John knows so well, his face thins a bit, his cheekbones becoming more prominent and his lips shifting into that familiar heart shape.

"Oh god," he whispers.

The face above him -- so recently familiar -- smiles, then nods at him.

"You want this."

"I do," John breathes.

He can feel the warm contours of Sherlock's skin against his stomach, it's a rush of electricity like no other, like their skin was crafted in a laboratory this way on purpose, designed to perfectly complement and arouse the other.

"I want this too... you know I do."

He's so hard. It's slow now, deliberate, these rocking, sweaty movements. John can't tear his eyes away from the face, the eyes, above him. When he shifts, Sherlock shifts back against him, bodies colliding, mouths leaking enthusiastic murmurs. It's everything he wants and it isn't -- it can't be -- a dream.

A few short moments later, he feels Sherlock jerk above him, his eyes widening, then shutting in pleasure, and John follows him over, throwing his head back and gasping the name that is always, always in his mind.

 _Sherlock_.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock doesn't talk for days.

It's rather disconcerting that it lasts this long. Since their 'talk' (John has taken to calling it that, _with_ the ironic air quotes), John's had two empty days, followed by long shifts at the surgery with no conversation at all at night. Tonight he'd trudged up the stairs, carrying a curry and a Tesco's bag, and looking forward to sitting down with a couple of medical journals he's been ignoring over the past months. The other doctors at the surgery are competent, but none of them seem all that interested in discussing some of the more recent developments in surgical techniques, which, he supposes, is to be expected. They're all GP's, so he can understand. But, really, he's keen to read some of the newer research out there.

And here he is, at their overlarge desk with the remains of supper on his plate and only the dregs left of what had been a piping hot cuppa. John finishes the last article and shuts the journal with a nod. He has a few ideas about some things he'd like to bring up with Sarah and his mind hums with medical contentment. He grins to himself; he loves the challenge of new learning.

Sherlock sits across from him, his eyes scanning the laptop in front of him rapidly. The plate John fixed for him sits, uneaten and cold, to his right.

John watches him for a moment: the rigid posture, the slight purse of his lips, the flicker of his eyes from left to right. Then he skims over Sherlock's features: the dark, mussed curls that frame his frown, the visible skin through his open collar, the dark tangle of his eyelashes.

John's mind slides into fantasy... what their fingers might look like tangled together, how Sherlock's breath would feel on his neck, the weight of his body pressing John into the mattress. It's an amalgam of memory and fantasy: heavy breaths, bodies slick with sweat, tender lidded eyes.

When Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath, John twitches in shock. Did his body language, his facial expression, somehow belie his most recent thoughts? But... no. Sherlock's eyes still focus on the screen, his brow purses in concentration. It's clear his mind is working at its regular, dizzying pace.

John pushes his chair out, gathers his dishes, and brings them to the kitchen. When he comes back into the sitting room, Sherlock still hasn't moved.

"Sherlock, can I help?"

Nothing.

It's one thing for Sherlock not to speak for several days, but really, it's another thing altogether for him to all but ignore John completely. And now that he thinks about it, John can't remember Sherlock acknowledging John's presence at all: no nods, no eye contact, no heavy sighs at him being in the way... nothing at all.

With a flourish and a nod, Sherlock closes his laptop, pushes back from the table, and hurries down the stairs without a backward glance. John stands, forgotten, in the middle of the room, his mind whirling over familiar moments with Sherlock heavily investigating and John shut away from it all.

"Why won't you let me in?"

He doesn't know if he said it aloud.

 

~*~

 

There have been five days of silence.

John sits in his chair, flipping channels aimlessly on the telly. He had a short shift this morning because one of the other doctors was off sick. Now he's eaten, paid a few (not overdue) bills, and has been trying to concentrate on the all important crap telly he watches. It's not working.

Sherlock has been in the kitchen in front of his microscope ever since John returned. He hasn't heard a thing out of him, other than the familiar rattle of petri dishes and the clink of slides.

The silence between them pulls at John, slides into the space between his cells and spreads outward. It's worse than the hours of silence he endured in his old bedsit. Baker Street has always housed so much more than that. John slides his eyes toward the window; it's just started raining. Heavy, pounding rain that comes and soaks everything through. The sky darkens immediately, almost without warning. It feels heavily apropos for how he's feeling.

John stares out the window from the chair for a long moment, the stillness of the flat at odds with everything rolling in turmoil inside him. Rain is supposed to cleanse, to wash away. Perhaps this rain is exactly what he needs. He stares, his vision blurry with thought, not aware of anything inside the flat for a moment.

Then, something on the telly captures his attention and John breaks out of his reverie and turns to look. The announcer is speaking in the falsely eager tone of those paid to get the public excited about the most ridiculous novelties. John squints at it for a moment... why is it familiar?

 _Leopold George Duncan Albert_

It's... oh, right. Queen Victoria's youngest son. It's the advert for the commemorative plates honouring each of Queen Victoria's nine children. Images flash back at him: the coffee shop, Kate the barista (Sherlock in disguise), John's ridiculous attempt at flirting, and the embarrassing conversation back in Baker Street after the fact.

John laughs aloud, then glances toward the kitchen to see Sherlock watching him. He grins automatically, because it's Sherlock. Sherlock, his friend. Sherlock, who doesn't look behind him, doesn't wait for anyone, but yells for John to keep up. Sherlock, who drives him mad sometimes. Sherlock, who is ridiculously brilliant and notices things that only a remarkable genius could. Sherlock, who is probably the best thing in John's life.

When John looks at him, Sherlock's face breaks into a wide smile, all the way to his eyes, and John feels some of the tension bleeding out of him.

Maybe silence isn't such a bad thing.

 

~*~

Sherlock leaves the kitchen after that, and John goes to have a shower. He'd been roused early from bed for his shift, and hadn't time for a shower beforehand.

When he steps back into the kitchen afterward, John looks around. The flat feels empty. The petri dishes and slides have been moved to the side of the demilune table in the kitchen, the microscope in between. Sherlock's door is closed, but John doesn't hear any noise behind it.

The sitting room is empty of everything but clutter. Sherlock must have left on some data-gathering mission that only makes sense to him. John huffs a smile to himself and climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

John finds himself whistling as he towels off his hair. The shower must have cleared his head quite a bit. He dresses in a shabby pair of jeans and a dark blue button down. They're both rather old and worn, but clean and very comfortable. His mind works slowly as he fastens each button. He can't stop thinking about Sherlock's smile. It had been full, real, not the false smile he puts on in the middle of a case because it fits the part he's playing for a witness.

It's a smile that John has only ever seen Sherlock use for... well, for him.

And, there. There it is. Somehow everything slides back into perspective for John. This past week has shaken up everything for him, has brought back memories and feelings he'd long buried. But before Sherlock had walked into their kitchen as Brad, John had been _happy_. He likes his life -- their life. He likes watching Sherlock's wild mind work, likes reining him in from his fanatical investigation, likes the adventure and uncertainty that living with Sherlock brings for him.

He likes Sherlock.

And if that is all he can have, no matter what he might want or choose for himself, then...

John buttons the last of his buttons and looks at the rain sliding down the window. He smiles to himself.

It is enough.

 

~*~

 

Hours later John stands at the window in the sitting room, watching the rain slick down the panes of glass. The street outside blurs into dark lines of cars and steadier, slower lines of pedestrians hurrying to get out of the rain. He has half a mind to grab his jacket and go outside himself, to let the water wash over him and pull out the memories he needs to let go of.

A floorboard creaks and John starts. He'd thought he was alone in the flat. He turns around toward the sound, then freezes.

"Brad," he whispers.

It's not Brad, of course. He knows that. It's Sherlock, with shorter, ginger hair, fuller cheeks and a different, easier posture. He pulls the door shut behind him, steps closer to John. John steps forward, then stops again. He doesn't - what is he supposed to do?

Brad (Sherlock) looks him over hungrily, his gaze stopping at the open collar of John's shirt, then piercing his stare.

Sherlock as Brad walks forward, holding John's eyes the entire time. When he's directly in front of John, he stops, his eyes flicking down to John's lips before returning to his eyes. John can't move. He can barely think. The world has ground to a halt around them, all sounds extinguished, all life around them frozen.

" _John._ " The voice is greedy, full of want.

Then a warm hand cups his cheek, fingertips sliding over his jawline. John feels like time has stopped, that this moment could somehow stretch into the entirety of his lifetime and he would have no idea.

"John, I-" the voice breaks, and then,

and then...

then, _oh god_ , Sherlock is kissing him. Sherlock kisses all of the sounds of the world back around them, cups John's skull with his hands and kisses John desperately. Sherlock kisses him until John finally kisses back, opening his mind to take in every bit of this, in case it's about to end soon. Sherlock kisses with strength, with assurance. It's the perfect deduction bled into a kiss.

John throws his arms around Sherlock and presses his body fully into the kiss. He slides palms over smooth cotton, cups Sherlock's buttocks and opens his mouth to Sherlock's tongue.

 _God, oh god, oh god._

He walks them backward, pushing Sherlock against the door and pressing against him in a slow arch of hidden skin and too many clothes. John's mind swims with words: wet, wonderful, perfect; he holds onto each one. He doesn't think but to want this. When John presses his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, the flavour bursts through his senses and he pushes far deeper, tasting every bend and ridge of Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock moans low in his throat, the sound tickling down John's spine.

Sherlock twists them around, pushing John back against the door and scraping his teeth over the skin of John's throat. John arches against him, opening his throat to... to... _god_ , to whatever Sherlock wants to do. His breath is barely normal now, he's overwhelmed and drowning in what he thought he couldn't have.

"Christ, you feel good," John gasps, "s'been so long."

Fingers are on his buttons now, cool, clever fingers, unbuttoning three buttons and sliding fingertips over John's collarbone, investigating down over his sternum. He almost shivers with the touch, shutting his eyes for a moment and focusing on Sherlock's fingertips tracing his skin. It feels different over every different surface of his chest: the pleasant sweep of skin on skin, the slight scratchy brush when he touches the hair on his chest, the electric shock when his fingers slide over John's nipples.

Oh, god.

John trembles, opens his eyes and reaches for Sherlock's face, cupping it between his hands and pulling their lips together. John's insatiable, desperate to feel every plane and angle of Sherlock's body. This kiss is relentless: harsh pulls and teeth bruising lips, but every moment of it settles down inside him and spurs him on, better than the one before.

Sherlock licks over his bottom lip, bites it, then opens his eyes and looks right at John. Sherlock's eyes are dark in the shallow light, deep and hungry, and John's pulled right inside.

"Christ, _Sherlock_ ," John says, reaching upward and tangling his fingers in the ginger curls, "you're just--"

And then everything stops. Sherlock's eyes widen, then cloud over; his hands drop to his sides and he steps away. In another moment Sherlock is out the door, striding down the steps, and John hears the front door close behind him.

John steps away from the door in a daze, blinking more than once to try to clear his vision. He scrubs his hand over his face, presses his fingertips into his eyes. What in the hell just happened?

He takes a few slow breaths, then buttons his shirt reluctantly back up, looking backward at the door for a moment. John is ridiculously confused. God, what _was_ that? Almost as suddenly as it had started, it was over. And is it actually... over?

What in the world had he done?

 

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

The next day John has to leave. Baker Street has become stifling, too hot for him to breathe. He can't focus on anything.

It's a Saturday. John can tell by the pedestrian traffic on the pavement as he walks: less hurried, people looking at their surroundings, a couple of women even smile at him. Walking has always been good for him, helps him clear his mind.

And, bloody hell, is John's mind in need of a bit of clearing.

John walks mindlessly, turning corners at random, letting himself be guided by something outside of himself. His mind is (still) on overdrive: replaying the events of the previous night in vivid detail. The feel of Sherlock's buttocks under his hands, their mouths crushed together, Sherlock's tongue making him more and more incoherent.

And what had it been for? What bloody purpose had it served, other than to reinforce to Sherlock that no matter what, no matter everything that happens, John will always be helpless against his attraction to Sherlock.

It's been like that since the beginning. John, hauling himself all the way across London to look at a flat with someone he's barely met, following him blindly into the middle of a crime scene (and instinctively complimenting every seventh sentence out of his mouth), suffering willingly through awkward dinner conversations, following him out into a reckless chase through alleys and over rooftops... and that was just their first night.

John sighs as he walks. It's as though, somehow, he's ceased to be his own individual life form and has instead become another part, an extension of Sherlock. Drawn to him, in need of him. Sherlock has become vital to his existence, to his very breath.

Oh, Christ. John is done for.

He passes an open air café, hears snatches of a deliberately loud teenaged girl conversation:

>  _"Oh my god, I just love him. It's like I can't even stop thinking about him long enough to even do my homework."_
> 
>  _"Oh, Anne. I think it means you're in love."_

John shudders at that, walks another block and leans against an abandoned storefront. It's so clear now. He has _got_ to get out of his head. John's somehow morphed into a teenaged girl, and there is nothing that's not wrong about that.

He needs a distraction. And now.

 

~*~

 

The coffee shop hums busily on Saturday afternoon. There are dozens of students frowning at laptops, ostensibly working (though John can see at least three browsing Facebook and at least one more has some other picture journaling site open and is scrolling avidly), friends obviously meeting for coffee and a chat, and what looks like at least one man clearly here to pick someone up. He keeps leering at any woman under the age of 35 that walks in and is garnering quite a few strange looks.

John walks to the counter and smiles at the young girl at the register, Bette. He remembers her as working several times alongside Kate, so there's no chance this is actually Sherlock in disguise. Thank heavens for small favours. Bette has just finished her first year at Uni, and is still pretty naïve about the world of adults.

She lives nearby, has been a patient of John's at the surgery once or twice; the second time saw her nearly sobbing in his office about the quantity of work and the fact that she was horrendously behind, and worried she was going to get kicked out.

"Doctor Watson," she smiles. "What can I get for you?"

"Earl Grey," he says. "Thanks, Bette." He reaches for his wallet, but she waves him off.

"My treat," she says. "You did so much for me: listened to me, didn't act all high-handed and pedantic about everything. I took your advice, you know. Told my flat-mates what I needed, shut off the computer, set a timer when I needed it, and got everything finished in time."

John beams at her. "That's fantastic. I'm happy for you."

She grins back, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. "The others here, they think you're great, too. Alicia definitely fancies you."

John's face heats. He's certain his cheeks are red. "Well, that's - flattering. And believe me, I know which coffee shop is my favourite. I guess I'll have to keep coming back."

"You would anyway, we make the best coffee and tea in London."

"Can't argue with that."

Bette hands him the hot cup, the smile fully reaching her eyes. "Come back soon."

"I will. Take care of yourself, Bette."

"Always, Doctor Watson."

 

~*~

 

John's wandering brings him to a park. The weather is pleasant; the rain seems to have brought everything to a manageable temperature and the sun is warm overhead.

He sits down in one of the benches, watching the flurry of activity as various men arrive, dressed in a couple of different colours. They must be here for a match of some sort. John shifts on the bench. This might be just what he needs: a bit of sport to distract him from his rampant introspection.

Some of the men start warming up, tossing the rugby ball sideways between them, doing quick sets of knee lifts, jogging from one end of the pitch to the other. If John were smart, he'd get himself together and find a team or a pick up game a few times a week. Anything to keep him moving more often.

Though, John certainly gets plenty of activity chasing after Sherlock.

Which is really not the train of thought he needs to continue right now. He shakes his head, looks around to compose himself. Walking up the path is a man with two children, one looking about ten years old, and the other must be barely three. They get to the side of the pitch and the man drops his bag, unzipping and pulling out a dark green jersey.

The three year old bursts into tears. John can't make out what they're saying (he's not trying to eavesdrop, just curious), but it's clear the youth wants him to stay and play. He keeps pointing over to the climbing structure and frowning at the men jogging around the pitch.

The man (is he the father?) speaks low, quietly. His face is open, fond, full of love as he speaks, gesturing to the ten year old, then to the playground and pointing to his watch. The three year old nods with large, wet eyes, his lips screwed up in the way only young children can manage.

The ten year old says something in an overly bright voice and reaches for the three year old's hand, obviously planning to lead him toward the playground. The father (he must be the father; the love on his face is apparent) claps the ten year old on the shoulder, watches them go, the dark jersey hanging from his hands, forgotten for the moment. His face is raw with emotion, drenched in pride, in affection. He stares for a long moment, obviously lost in thought.

Then one of the other players tosses the rugby ball at him; it hits his calf and bounces to the ground. He looks up, and shakes his head. He pulls his tee shirt over his head, then pulls on his jersey and calls out something obscene as he jogs out to the pitch. It's clear he's talking shit to some of the others already there. It's such a marked change from his behaviour of just the previous moment that John is intrigued.

The match kicks off not long after that, exciting from the start. It's clear there's a healthy rivalry between these two teams: the chatter during the match is non-stop, loud, and full of inventive curses. The teams are well matched, and some of the players have clearly been playing for a long time. John watches some of the well-executed plays, fluid as though they were choreographed, and wishes (again) that he could be out there: sweat, laughter, the pleasant sting of hard work filling his thighs, lungs burning from exertion.

A shout breaks his reverie. The man he'd been watching before (the back of his jersey says "McAllister") is shouting at another player, his face screwed up in anger. McAllister steps forward, curses falling from his lips, and the other player mutters something under his breath.

Two other players come stand between them, pulling the two away from each other and speaking to them quietly. It's a few minutes before the match gets underway again.

After a few more plays, McAllister is upset again by the same player. John sees it this time, the player on the opposing team knocking him down while he's attempting to score a try. This time McAllister launches himself at the other man, yelling obscenities and lashing out with his fists. The two are wrapped around each other in a violent dance. Their fists connect, faces screwed up in rage.

It's so incongruous to the gentle, loving behaviour John had witnessed in McAllister just a quarter hour before. It's fascinating; he could be watching two different men.

Oh.

John's vision blurs a little, focuses on Sherlock as Brad in 1992, emotionally open, his words matching his touch, to Sherlock as Brad touching John just last night, the hunger in his eyes so obvious. He flashes quickly between each of the disguises John caught Sherlock in, each of them distinctly different, markedly dissimilar to Sherlock himself.

John feels a little ridiculous. How had he not seen it before? He'd figured out that Sherlock was attracted to him (why else would every single disguise of his flirt with John?), but it had never occurred to him to think about why Sherlock would have used the disguises in the first place.

Costumes, disguises... a chance to pretend, to imagine.

A disguise allows someone be a different person entirely, lets them try on a new personality. In the same way putting on that rugby jersey let McAllister change from a loving, concerned father into a ruthless player, capable of violence and callous anger, each disguise let Sherlock tap into a different character, a different personality.

The disguises let him... hide.

Last night, John hadn't let him do that. Immediately, John had pushed the Brad personality out of his mind, focusing instead on Sherlock: Sherlock's body against his, Sherlock's fingers mapping his skin, Sherlock's mouth against his throat. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

To John's credit, last night he hadn't been actively ignoring any potential need Sherlock might have had to hide. John had honestly thought that it was Sherlock's way of bridging that gap between them, making up for the awful end in 1992, and the years of buried longing.

But, no. No, Sherlock had dressed as Brad last night because... well, because _why_ , exactly? Because he wanted to talk to John? Because he was aroused? Because of some other, complicated train of thought that John would never be able to follow?

What made him stop? John thinks back, lets his mind (selfishly) linger on the touches between them, the bruising feel of Sherlock's lips on his, before walking through as much as he can remember.

No... it wasn't until John had said something -- said Sherlock's name -- that everything stopped.

Well, and Sherlock is different than any other person John has ever known. When has Sherlock ever fallen into a predictable behavioural pattern?

So, instead of letting him hide, maybe the disguises let him... act on what he really wants?

The green of the park comes into stark relief around him and John blinks rapidly, looking around. He has no idea what parts of this convoluted train of thought might actually be useful, but he feels a little more settled, at least.

One thing is painfully clear: John needs to talk to Sherlock.

 

~*~

 

When John walks into their flat, Sherlock is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by what appears to be an entire costume shop upended on the floor in a ludicrous mess. The coffee table has been pushed back, the chairs are up against the shelves. John's never before realised how large their sitting room is, and he grins to himself. Always too full of clutter.

He stands in the doorway for a moment, watching Sherlock. He sits with his legs crossed as a child might, but he's very still. His back is mostly to John, but John imagines his eyes are flicking quickly across the items scattered around him, trying to find some sort of pattern.

John clears his throat.

"Yes, John, I know you're there. I heard you come in."

"It's often considered polite to offer a greeting when someone returns home."

"So might your similar lack of greeting also be construed as something other than polite?"

John laughs. "Yeah, alright then. Touché."

There's a (thin) path through the sitting room to the kitchen, which John navigates carefully. He's loath to disturb anything until he knows why Sherlock has taken over the floor.

"Tea then?"

"Your third cup today, John?"

"How did-- you know what... never mind. Yes, I'm indulging in my third cup today. Would you like one or not?"

"Please."

As John putters around the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and pulling out the box of tea bags, he tries to go over why Sherlock might be doing this. In all their months together as flatmates, John has never seen Sherlock getting into a disguise, has only been a party to the disguises once Sherlock has them on. But, he must have all sorts of pieces somewhere here at Baker Street: wigs, make up, clothing, because so often their encounters happened right in this area, and not long after John had seen Sherlock as himself.

Perhaps he's working out a new disguise? Trying to find some discernible pattern in his own disguise kit?

The kettle whistles and John pours the boiling water over the tea bags. Really, he has no idea. But it's often wise to go into a conversation with Sherlock with at least an idea or two.

John fixes both of their cuppas, carries them to the edge of the sitting room.

"Redecorating, then? Finding something new for the skull?"

Sherlock turns his head, the corner of his mouth quirks upward, but he doesn't answer. Not at first.

"Can I walk through?" John asks. "Will I disturb things?"

Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, frowns at the wigs in front of him.

John navigates his way carefully, hands Sherlock one of the mugs, then perches on the edge of the overstuffed chair, heels off his shoes and rests his feet on the cushion.

"So, what's going on, then?" John asks.

"I'm trying to understand."

"Trying to understand... ?"

"Trying to understand why. Trying to understand you."

John looks around. "And the disguises will help you do that?"

"Of course they will. Obviously." Sherlock murmurs to himself, "The answer has got to be here. Somewhere."

Taking a sip of his tea, John considers what Sherlock has told him.

"So, all of your disguises, trying to trick me. You said that you started because you were bored. Why did you keep doing it, then?"

Sherlock looks up at him.

"You were far quicker to pick up on every disguise than anyone has done."

"That's because you were always flirting with me!"

"I was not."

"Sherlock." John is incredulous. "You _were_."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. John looks at him for a moment, reading the bewilderment in his face. Then he realises: the attraction, the desire he read in Sherlock isn't a new thing. Sherlock has wanted John for a long time, but... he hasn't been aware of it.

John takes a chance. "Sherlock, perhaps what you're doing here is not trying to understand me at all. I think, maybe, that you're trying to understand yourself."

"What can you possibly mean by that?" Sherlock's voice is dismissive. "Of course I understand myself."

"Do you?"

"Obviously."

"So there's nothing about you that you need to learn, that is still a mystery? You're an open book to yourself, then?"

Sherlock's look would wither nearby plants if they were the sort to keep plants in their flat.

"You know, it is possible that there are workings of your mind -- of your body -- that you're unaware of."

Sherlock huffs a breath of impatience, but John is still oddly calm as he continues.

"Alright, so let's look at it objectively, then. Take Brad. Why don't you explain to me why, during your time as Brad, you deviated enough from your established, deliberate pattern so that you ripped out the notes from your journal and considered it to invalidate all of the previous data - so much so that you stopped that line of experimentation altogether?"

"That wasn't me, obviously. That was _you_."

"I had nothing to do your behaviour, Sherlock. You've already said that you can predict behaviour. You should have known."

Sherlock's eyes narrow at him. "I can predict behaviour," he bellows, "I just can't predict yours!"

John's quiet for a minute.

"So you're telling me that all of those disguises were an attempt to try to predict my behaviour?"

"We've already covered this."

"And yet, you're sitting here in the midst of your disguise kit and you can't find a pattern for any of it. You can't explain why my behaviour is unpredictable to you, or even why you're so driven to know it?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

John's heart tightens a little. He steps out of the chair, picking his way through the debris on the floor until he's just in front of Sherlock. He clears a small area for himself, stacking things neatly over to his left, then sits down, his body a mirror of Sherlock's posture.

"I'm going to tell you something," he says quietly. "Today I went out to have a walk. When I walk, I often notice things, watch other people." He grins. "Sometimes I even try to think like Sherlock Holmes. I notice. I try to deduce."

The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkle slightly. He looks pleased.

"So, today I sat in the park watching some blokes warming up for a rugby match. There were people all over: children playing, people walking their dogs, people reclining under trees and reading, talking... pretty much anything you can imagine.

"This one man caught my eye. He was dressed in regular clothes, nondescript, and he had two children with him. He was this very obviously sweet father. But he didn't stay that way, Sherlock. The minute he put on his jersey to play rugby? He was a totally different bloke. He was loud, foul-mouthed, almost cruel. In the short time between when I saw him with his children and when he put on his rugby kit he changed... it was like I was watching two different people entirely."

John stops talking, is quiet. He watches Sherlock take it all in. He's still facing John, but his eyes are darting different places; he's thinking. When he looks back at John, John takes a slow breath.

"Why did you dress as Brad last night, Sherlock? Why did you touch me, kiss me... why did you let me kiss you back, but then disappear as soon as I said your name?"

"I don't... know." Sherlock's eyes are open, honest. He still hasn't moved from his position on the floor, but he's looking directly at John, his body leaning the slightest bit toward him.

There's a question that's been nagging at John for a while now, it's probably nothing, but it's been bothering him.

"Do you dress as Brad with anyone else?"

Sherlock's eyebrows raise slightly. "... no."

"Have you done?"

"No, John, that disguise was only... I only did it with you."

John wants to ask him why he brought out the disguise again, if it had only been in use once, more than seventeen years ago, but it doesn't seem like the right time. So he tries a different one.

"What was it like when you were Brad?"

Sherlock sighs.

"When I dressed as Brad -- when I was with you -- I didn't have to think. I didn't have to temper my words, didn't have to think about the potentially disastrous consequences of saying whatever came into my head."

"Of course not," John says. "I wanted you just as much. That's what desire is about: letting go, giving yourself over to something you want on a very basic level, to something you don't have to think about."

"And you - do that?"

"Not in a long time." John looks down for a moment. "Not since... well, you."

He has an idea, sort of a long shot, but it's worth a try. He looks back up, licks his lip, then looks directly at Sherlock. Holding his gaze, John licks his lip again and leans forward. He lets his mouth part a little and glances down at Sherlock's lips. Sherlock's eyelids flutter the slightest bit, his own lips part, and he glances at John's lips before flicking his gaze back to John's eyes.

John moves another infinitesimal bit forward; his own heart pounds its way to the surface of his chest. It's all he can do not to push forward, to crush their lips together and kiss Sherlock deeply, kiss him until they're gasping and clutching at each other and Sherlock is spilling his desires into the air around them.

Really, John knows he's acting a bit, overdoing this a little to make a point, but the reality is that he can't think of anything else. He's done so much thinking over the past week, so much bloody introspection. John knows -- has known for a while -- what he wants. He wants Sherlock so badly he can feel it pulsing in his blood, filling the fibres of his muscle.

It's about time for Sherlock to get a clue.

Sherlock has moved closer to John; they're about half a foot apart right now and inching closer. John can see the thin skin under Sherlock's eyes, the mole above his left eyebrow. The sounds around them have tunnelled until John can't hear anything but Sherlock's breath, his own.

This is Sherlock in front of him, not anyone else. The dark disorderly curls, the otherworldly cheekbones, the strong line of his nose. This isn't a made up character, someone meant to throw John off-guard, someone whose only role is to collect some sort of inexplicable data. John inches forward again; they're so close now that he can feel Sherlock's breath wash over him. It's tangible: the scent and feel of Sherlock undisguised, and almost unbearably erotic.

John's heart is in his throat. A part of him hopes this doesn't work, that somehow this kiss will be the kiss of fairy stories and mend everything. Then in the morning they'll be tangled together, warm, nude, and sated, and all this will be a faint memory behind them.

Less than an inch now, perhaps half. John wets his lips, glances down at Sherlock's marvellously shaped upper lip.

They kiss.

 _Oh god._

John can feel his eyes shut but pries them back open. He watches Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, watches the subtle changes in his cheeks as they kiss gently, slowly. His stomach aches with longing, and looking at Sherlock's skin so closely is starting to do him in. John wants to taste every texture: the rough scratch of stubble on his jaw, the hair on his brow, the sweet indulgence of his cheekbone, the edge of his hairline.

He is about to shut his eyes, to open his mouth and kiss Sherlock in a way that would make pedestrians on the street blush, when he sees Sherlock's eyes flicker open, widen almost comically.

He pulls back.

Sherlock's chest rises and falls rapidly; his heart rate is obviously elevated. John doesn't move from his spot on the floor, just observes. He watches Sherlock's eyes, sometimes so absurdly clear in what he's thinking. Either John has learned a lot about Sherlock in the past months or John is the only person Sherlock will let see his face this open.

John watches the thoughts flare over Sherlock's eyes like blips on an EKG. Sherlock hasn't looked away; his eyes roam over John like an artist's might, learning the lines and dips and shadows.

Sherlock thinks so hard that John can almost feel the temperature in the room rise. He unfastens his top button, but keeps his focus on Sherlock. Finally, his mouth drops open, Sherlock presses the fingertips of his right hand to his lips, and he whispers,

" _Oh_."

And now -- for the first time, in all of the bizarre, dangerous situations they've been in together -- Sherlock looks terrified.

"You have a lot to say," John says quietly.

Sherlock nods. He doesn't move his fingers from his mouth.

"But you don't know how to say any of it."

He shakes his head.

John smiles at him, hopes the warmth he feels is obvious in his expression. He feels like he's finally figuring this out... like he's finally starting to _understand_. Sherlock has had no idea what he was using his disguises for, or at the very least, he hasn't known all of his motives.

For someone so brilliant, Sherlock can be remarkably blind to his own intentions.

"So," John's voice is still quiet, "what if you put on a disguise, then? Use one that'll let you say what you're thinking." He wants to reach out, cover Sherlock's hand with his own, tell him all of the stupid, romantic thoughts in his head. But he keeps his hands deliberately to himself, nods instead. "Then you won't have to."

 

~*~

 

When John was in the army, he developed a strange habit of attaching significance to certain items beyond what they actually possessed. He attributes part of it to the face that in Afghanistan he had very few things to keep track of (gun, clothing, boots) and even fewer belongings.

His mess kit had a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant (when it worked), soap, and every once in a while a bottle of shampoo. Shampoo was a bit of a luxury; he normally just used soap.

One shower, after John had been over there for less than a month or so, John stood under the spray, shell-shocked by his experience on the front line. Naylor had been shot right next to him as they'd walked. John had not been able to shake the look on Naylor's face: his mouth open in silent surprise, eyes wide in shock. Had John been another two feet to the right, it would have been him.

He remembers standing in the shower, letting the weak spray slide over his skin, mingling with the tears he didn't bother to hide and staring at the shampoo bottle in his hand. It was less than a sixth gone (John didn't have much hair; he didn't need much shampoo at all).

 _Will this last?_ he remembers thinking, _or will this be the very last bottle of shampoo that I ever use?_

He had wondered how many bottles he might go through before he, too, was taken by enemy fire.

Would he outlast the bottle or would it outlast him?

It was a little more morbid than John was used to, but he'd never been confronted with such obvious mortality before his time in the army.

Even as a doctor, before he'd joined up, John had rarely thought that deeply about his own mortality. Yes, people died every day, and yes, things were misdiagnosed, but one of the things about being a trained doctor was that John knew how to fix, how to heal.

It's one thing to know how to heal, how to perform surgery, how to diagnose from a quick exam, but it was another thing altogether to see someone's heart explode in front of him and realise that there was nothing he could do about it.

Nor was there anything he could do for himself.

John sits at the (still mostly clean) table in the kitchen, spinning a jar of honey gently between his fingers and thinking about it. John had bought the jar at Tesco's more than three weeks ago, after Sherlock had said something off the cuff about John's tendency toward jam on toast and that there were plenty more toppings one could use for sustenance.

And given the constant push-pull between them regarding getting Sherlock to actually _eat_ on a regular basis, John had jumped at the possibility that there might be something that could get Sherlock to consume more than just a cup of coffee or tea in the morning.

The honey is half gone now.

John considers it a success.

He stares at the jar now, though. Three weeks ago, when it was full, he'd known nothing of what he knows now. Three weeks ago they'd been on the Miller case, arguing about beans, chasing after Beatrice Wright. Three weeks ago John had been blissfully unaware of the changes that were about to befall them. Three weeks ago, John hadn't thought about Brad in years. He had managed to successfully bury that experience until it was little more than a faint embarrassment from early adulthood.

Little did he know what was going to surface between them just a couple of weeks hence.

When this honey jar had been full, John had been a GP at Sarah's surgery, following and assisting Sherlock on cases, fully capable of (mostly) ignoring the attraction he felt to his brilliant flatmate.

But now the honey is half gone and everything has changed. It's impossible for more than an hour to pass without John's thoughts streaming back to Sherlock, without John watching his mouth and wanting.

He holds the jar up to the light and looks at the honey-gold colour, watches the slow viscosity of it as it glides down the edges of the jar.

If things can change so much in three weeks, he wonders, what will it be like when this jar is empty? Will it take two weeks? Three? More? And will John still be talking with Sherlock, trying to work through the pile of rubble Sherlock has piled around himself so high that he can't quite peer over?

Or maybe, just maybe, will they have figured this (whatever _'this'_ is between them) out by then? Will John know what it's like to fall asleep, sated and sweat-dirty, curled around a long, thin body? Will he wake in Sherlock's bed, bemused and tolerant of the biological paraphernalia scattered around? Will they fall into sleep together, drunk on kisses, both of their minds blissed out and focused on nothing but skin?

John shudders a little, sits back in his chair and smirks at the honey. _Get a grip, Watson_ , he tells himself, _no need to get overly romantic_.

To distract himself, John turns to look at the sitting room, just recently littered with Sherlock's substantial disguise kit. He really ought to put things back into some semblance of order.

He spends the next ten minutes moving the coffee table back, the chairs, stacking old newspapers and adding them to the ever-growing pile by the door, returning books to shelves.

John has half a mind on what Sherlock is doing just down the corridor. John had suggested that Sherlock put on a disguise, something that might finally allow them to talk without Sherlock's barriers getting in their way every time. What is he doing right now? John's fascinated, in spite of his frustration with the entire situation, at the fact that Sherlock is capable of almost fully changing his appearance. He knows that a large bit of it also has to do with the fact that Sherlock has studied behaviour, habits, for so long now. That he can slip into a different personality on a whim, someone completely unlike himself. He also has enough skill with make up, with prosthetics, that he can make himself look like a different human being altogether.

It's remarkable.

And, really, yet another reason John can barely get him out of his mind. Add it to the endless list of things Sherlock can do flawlessly. But really, what John can't stop wondering is this: when Sherlock comes into the sitting room, who will he be?

Will he be someone completely different? Perhaps a disguise John has seen before?

He couldn't care less, to be honest; he just wants the chance to talk to Sherlock, the chance to get all of this -- whatever it is -- out in the open... even if it they can't figure it all out.

The creak of Sherlock's door interrupts John's thoughts. He feels his heart freeze for a moment, then he turns around slowly.

He has no idea who he's about to see.

 

~*~

 

"Brad," John whispers. _Of course._ Had he really thought about it, he would have realised that would be the disguise. None of the others had ever opened up to John. It had to be Brad.

John sits heavily in the chair and looks up at Sherlock. He mentally cautions himself against using Sherlock's name, reminds himself to be careful here. John has enough experience with skittish, nervous patients; he knows how to be gentle.

He's just not so sure he's all that capable of that around Sherlock, er, Brad. Who-the-fuck-ever.

Brad strides across the room, pulls John to his feet and snogs him roughly. John's startled into quiet, then his body catches on and he kisses back: lips opening, tongue pressing, wet on wet and _so good_. The kisses sink down inside him, attach to every air molecule and carry them through his body. It's everything he can do to remain on his feet.

John can't think but to want this: warm lips, a strong body pressed (everywhere) against him, and all the bloody time in the world to let it happen.

Brad's hands are everywhere: on his back, cupping his skull, sliding down to rest on his arse. John presses back, lets his own hands wander. He thinks in single syllables: _god_ , and _yes_ , and _this_. The night settles around them, the streetlight streams in through the window, painting a warm glow over the side of Brad's face, and John dips his tongue out to taste it.

"The way you taste," he whispers. "God, it's everything."

This isn't quite what he expected. John had thought they'd start by talking, thought Sherlock might finally be free of whatever was holding him back and would actually be able to admit to himself some of the things John has inferred about him.

But John's only human. A red-blooded sodding _human male_ , in fact, and it's really hard to concentrate on conversation when he can feel Brad's erection pressed hard against his hip. If this is what Sherlock needs to get himself ready, well, John's not going to stand in the way. Or, to be technically correct, John is going to stand directly in the way and let Sherlock touch (hypnotise, ravish) him however he desires.

He loses track of the minutes they spend there, mouths together, breath mingled, hands everywhere. John's mind swims with pleasure; he's always loved kissing and this is bloody addictive. He could do this forever.

"You were the only one," Brad gasps. John breaks out of his reverie for a moment, licks the corners of his lips lazily, can't pull his mouth away from Brad's face (doesn't want to).

"Hmm...?"

"The only one... you were the only one that made me feel anything. God, the things I wanted to do to you. I couldn't shut my mouth off with you, didn't even want to."

"Tell me," John murmurs against his temple, dragging his lips over the ginger sideburns until he can pull Brad's earlobe between his teeth.

"I wanted you. It was like I'd always wanted you... you did - things to my head, connected the synapses, made my thoughts make sense."

John doesn’t know if he's talking to Brad or Sherlock, but he's determined not to interrupt the flow. He knows Sherlock needs to let this out, needs to say it. To be honest -- to be _completely fucking honest_ \-- John needs it, too. He needs to hear this, needs to somehow let his younger self off the hook for falling so deeply for someone he'd just met, someone that made him feel in ways he hadn't before.

"I wanted you, too," John says quietly, then pulls at Brad's earlobe with his teeth, licks the skin just under.

"I wasn't completely honest with you."

"No?"

"No. No, John, I lied to you." Brad's chin is in the air, his eyes are shut, and he lets out quiet little gasps when John brushes his skin with his lips.

"It's okay," John murmurs, tugging gently on the back of his head until he can press their lips together again: once, twice, more... he loses count. He wants to hear this, yes, but he wants that mouth, those lips. God, he's so addicted and he wants so desperately. "People lie sometimes... it's alright."

He runs his tongue over the full expanse of Brad's lower lip, then looks back up.

"You're not lying now, are you?" he asks quietly.

"No." Brad's eyes fly open for a moment, wide. "Not at all."

"Good." John shuts his eyes, kisses again, sliding his hands along miles of fabric, rests his hands on the swell of Brad's spectacular arse.

They kiss for several minutes longer, John getting progressively more and more tuned into the body against him, and far less focused on what he'd initially thought was the goal of this encounter.

Brad walks him backward; his calves hit the edge of the sofa, then he pushes him down, sits next to him.

"John."

He nods, can't keep his eyes from flicking down to Brad's (Sherlock, Sherlock) lips, reddened and wet.

"John, I lied before. I didn't want to make you - didn't want you to leave. I... shouldn't have done."

John freezes for a moment. His blood stops, then starts slowly running through his veins again. He's really... are they really talking about this? He tries to nod encouragingly, doesn't say a word.

"I was..." Brad's voice falters.

"Hey," John says, scooting forward, touching Brad's face lightly. "Take your time."

Brad's Adam's apple bobs deliberately up and down for a moment; he glances down.

"I didn't... no, that's--" He stops for a minute, takes a breath, then looks back up at John. "I'd never felt like that before: so desperate, so needy. I'd never wanted anyone like that, never had anyone look at me the way you did."

John nods slowly, doesn't shift his gaze at all. His throat tightens.

"I just - I was so young, and it wasn't what I was used to doing. I was collecting data: doing experiments, trying to learn about people, about behaviour. I wanted to know patterns, see what was common across different experiences. But with you," he scoots forward, touches John's hip lightly. "I didn't care about any of that. I just wanted to know - _you._ "

His voice falters a little bit, he glances down, then back up. "I just... I wanted you so badly."

John strokes his cheek with his thumb. "I wanted you just as much."

Brad leans forward, kisses John so gently that were his eyes closed he might not have felt it. John kisses back, slowly, carefully. He can see the vulnerability in Brad's eyes, wants to help it disappear.

"I think..." Brad's mouth is a whisper away from John's now; he can feel the words even more than he can hear them. "I think I got... scared."

"You were young."

"So were you."

They're quiet for a moment.

"I tried to delete you. I almost did."

John grins. "Maybe I'm undelete-able."

"I'm - sorry."

John's throat closes completely. He thought he'd been going along with all of this, benignly letting Sherlock as Brad say what he needed to say, but in those two words, everything comes rushing back: Brad's angry face, the way he pushed John away, said things so roughly, seemingly without any feeling left. John feels stricken, doesn't know what to do.

"I fucked up." Brad looks across the room for a minute as he speaks, then his eyes come back to John, rake over him, narrow with concern.

"John?" he says, concerned.

John nods at him, can't speak. He thought he could do this: let Sherlock (or Brad, or whomever) talk to him, let it out, go through whatever he needed to. John had thought he could do this and not be affected, not let everything float up around him and fog his mind with memories. But... god, it's like therapy: talking, sharing, everything you're supposed to do, and then one day, without any warning, everything comes crashing back down and guts you.

Yet, part of John had wanted this: entertained fantasies of Brad showing up, finding him and apologising, telling John he'd never meant to push him away in the first place. And, god, that part of him, that twenty-two year old part of him is fucking elated by this revelation. That part of him wants to go back in time, wants to bring them back more than seventeen years and have another night together: something unfettered by disguises, something untarnished by anything other than the two of them and the intense fucking feelings that had threatened to overwhelm him. That part of him wants to let it play out in another pathway of their lives. He wonders: was the pull between them as intense and real as John's memories recall? What would have happened to them? Would they have come together, fallen deeply in love and been a story that friends told to others with envious smiles and indulgent laughs? Or would it have run its course: burned brightly and fizzled out when the reality of their youth and differences rose up between them?

Though, John also wants to be here, to listen, to be whatever Sherlock needs him to be so he can get out whatever has been blocking him from letting John in.

And yet.

Everything Brad has said so far has all been in the past tense. It's all been about something from so long ago that Sherlock tried to delete and came rushing back to cloud everything.

And while John wants to give this to Sherlock, wants to help him let go of all of the baggage he's unknowingly carried all this time... John wants to move on.

Because everything Brad did in 1992, isn't it like what Sherlock has been doing these last months? Disguising himself, teasing John, pulling him in, then pushing him away again?

John sighs; he's lost in his head again. He blinks a few times, catches Sherlock's eyes on him, and immediately looks down. John realises that he's exhausted. He's not tired of Sherlock, not tired of their life together, not tired of being his friend, of running around with him on ridiculous cases... not any of that.

John is tired of not knowing.

He's tired of being held on such a tether by his own brutal desire and looking for signs that Sherlock might return it in kind. He's tired of trying to look for evidence, of trying to work out instead of being told, tired of having moments of insight and having Sherlock walk away in the middle of it every single time.

"John."

He glances at his hands, his left hand clenching and releasing unconsciously. He can't look back up at Sherlock. He doesn't know what to say, can't make himself form any useful words.

" _John._ "

The voice is intense, full of passion. John's chest tightens.

"I have - things to tell you, things I have to say."

John looks up, keeps his face guarded; he presses his tongue tightly against his hard palate.

"Go on," he says quietly.

"I want you," Sherlock says. "I want you, but I... I didn't - know it. You saw me, saw through me so well. You saw who I was and you stayed. I pulled out my disguise kit not long after you moved in. I was curious to find out _how_ you knew me, if you would no matter what."

John is quiet, listens. Sherlock isn't talking about the past anymore.

"It was intoxicating, exhilarating, trying out new disguises, voices, seeing how you reacted to me, the way your body language changed. You always angled toward me, looked me right in the eye, smiled so genuinely. I watched you with other people; you're genuine with them, too... but you were -- you _are_ \-- different with me. Always."

John nods. That's not surprising. Sherlock is unlike anyone he's ever known.

"I became obsessed. Every new experience with you gave me other ideas of characters, of behaviours I might try, professions I could emulate."

Sherlock stands, starts moving around the room as he speaks.

"I paid attention to how others reacted to me, of course, but it wasn't what was interesting to me. You, John. You were _fascinating_. I could never quite predict your behaviour, your conversation, but you were always drawn to me, always flirted back."

He stops. Turns to look at John for a long moment. "I know I said before that I wasn't flirting. I didn't realise it, didn't consciously know what I was doing, but I was. I know that now."

John turns to face Sherlock, pushes himself up straighter so his back is against the sofa cushion.

Sherlock whirls around, the ginger curls on his head flying out and then settling back down on his head. He walks quickly back to the sofa and sits down, angling his body toward John's. "Don't you see?" His voice is full of feeling.

"Don't you see, John? It's you. It's always you. I always know my thoughts, always know what I'm doing. But I didn't know what I was doing with you. I couldn't see it."

John's mind is whirling. What he wants, what he really wants, is for something to silence the world around them, for the electricity to die out so there will be silence and darkness around them. He wants to shut his eyes and pull Sherlock back against him, wants to lie down and kiss him deeply until their bodies slide together sweetly. But John was not a soldier for nothing. He knows how to control himself, even when his body thrums with longing.

He swallows, looks at Sherlock. "Why do you think you can see it now?"

"I don't - know."

"What changed, then?" John catches himself before he says Sherlock's name. Sherlock's been speaking in present tense, being unusually honest and open, but John's wary of doing anything to upset this precarious balance.

Sherlock looks thoughtful, scrubs his thumb across his bottom lip.

"I... remember things now, everything that happened in 1992. All of it."

"Maybe..." John stops for a minute, not really sure if he should continue. "Maybe now you - _want_ to see it?"

Sherlock nods. "I don't like things that I don't understand."

John looks at him strangely, snorts. "Yes, you do. It's why you're positively gleeful when Lestrade calls you for a new case."

"Well, yes. That." He smiles at John. "But I don't like when I don't understand myself. I dislike feelings of uncertainty, of emotions that don't have a logical place."

"So you - feel something for me."

"I feel _so much_ for you." Sherlock looks stunned. "Do you see how that's so out of place for me?" He stands and starts pacing again. "That first night, when we met... you marvelling at the things I deduced about you, you watching me at Lauriston Gardens like I was fascinating, even your ridiculous questions at the restaurant. It delighted me; I couldn't get enough. I was so drawn to you, and that - terrified me."

Sherlock steps on top of, then sits down on the coffee table, his knees just touching John's.

"This -- " he gestures between them, "this - thing between us. It scares me. I don't - know what to do about that."

John feels a rush of compassion; he's filled with empathy.

"I don't know, either." He smiles slowly at Sherlock, still carefully guarding his words. "But I think that's... alright."

Sherlock looks at him a moment, doesn't say anything.

"Just because we don't have an explanation," John pauses a minute, reaches out to cover Sherlock's knee with his hand, "doesn't mean it isn't worth it."

Sherlock glances down at John's hand, brings his hand to trace John's knuckles lightly. He looks up at John; his face is open, his eyes wide and vulnerable.

"You - want this?" Sherlock's voice is a whisper.

"Badly," John says.

"Even if--"

"Yes. Even then."

Sherlock swallows visibly. He isn't looking at John, focusing somewhere over John's shoulder. John can almost see his mind working, testing out thoughts like the moves of a chess player. Then, after a moment, Sherlock's eyes clear. He looks beautiful, determined.

Sherlock slides forward, his knee between John's thighs.

"Then come to bed," he says quietly. "Come to bed with me."

 

~*~


	6. Chapter 6

The night is quiet when they walk into John's room. Sherlock's room is closer, but _yours is cleaner,_ Sherlock had whispered, his lips light against the top of John's ear.

He shuts John's door, leans against it for a moment, then steps into the room, deliberately toward John. Moonlight shines in lines around them, painting Sherlock's face into angular shadows. John's breath catches in his throat for a moment. Though Sherlock is still dressed as Brad, his look is all Sherlock. John can see the underlying bone structure, the way he carries himself. His look is eager but shy, and all directed at John.

John steps forward, not breaking eye contact. He wants to touch, touch Sherlock's skin, inches and miles of it, and all for him. He reaches out, touches Sherlock's face with his palm, his thumb brushing his cheek. Sherlock leans into it, only a slight incline of his head, but it makes John's skin heat. A lock of brilliant red hair falls across Sherlock's forehead, into his eyes. He glances up, then a look of recognition passes over his face and he pauses.

Ahh...

Sherlock had forgotten he was wearing a disguise.

"It's alright," John murmurs, "it's fine."

But Sherlock looks determined. He reaches behind his head, his hands moving slightly. John hears a couple of quiet pindrops on the floor, then Sherlock brings his ring fingers to both lower eyelids, pulling them downward as he uses his thumb and index finger to pull out a pair of contact lenses. He drops those to the floor as well, then looks at John with clear, green-grey eyes.

As John watches, Sherlock makes small, subtle changes to his appearance: removing small prosthetics from under his cheekbones and over his chin. He pulls a tissue from the box on John's nightstand and wipes over parts of his face, revealing more and more of himself. Changes to his body are slight: shoulder pads, some extra layers around his middle, some things John can't begin to name, and then Sherlock stands in front of him, his collared shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, his lips parted, his eyes vulnerable and anchored on John.

"Here I am," he whispers. John doesn't think he's ever heard Sherlock's voice so quiet.

"Nearly," John says, gesturing toward the tangled mop of red on Sherlock's head. Sherlock glances upward, then captures John's hand with his, brings it up. He looks intently at John, nods at him, then John carefully pulls off the wig and places it on top of his bureau. There's some netting or something over Sherlock's hair and John takes another step forward, using both hands to remove it carefully, untangling the other hair pins he finds and laying it all down next to the wig.

He runs his fingers through Sherlock's matted curls, untangling them, pressing against Sherlock's skull with his fingertips. Sherlock's eyes fall shut while John caresses his scalp, and John's fingertips burn with sensation. Sherlock's hair is soft, warm, and the scent of it bursts through the air: soapy, chemicals... _Sherlock_ , all filling John's senses. He inhales as deeply as he can.

After a long moment, Sherlock opens his eyes, they're deep and unfocused for a moment before he focuses on John, then smiles. John's heart tightens and tender words fill his mind.

"Here you are," John whispers. "You're here now."

They're in the middle of the room, far from the bed, but John has very little desire to move from this space any time soon, if ever. John slides his hands down, under Sherlock's curls and over his neck, tracing the curves. Sherlock watches him, his eyes slipping from John's eyes to his neck, his lips.

John brings his lips to Sherlock's cheek, traces upward to his brow. Sherlock's skin is soft under his lips, and John can't quite get over the fact that this is Sherlock, Sherlock here in front of him with his shirt open and his eyes full.

"Sherlock," John breathes, pressing their foreheads together. "God, I want you so badly."

Sherlock steps into his space, opens his mouth to speak, but shuts it again. He reaches for John's face, his eyes following every movement.

Sherlock's thumb brushes John's cheekbone, less defined than his own and something John hasn't really paid attention to before. His thumb rubs over the skin, tracing gently, slides over the skin under John's eye, then up to his temple. It's so unbearably intimate that John's throat hurts. Sherlock's eyes are soft, attentive, and John realizes Sherlock isn't learning right now, isn't testing out new data, isn't acting on other observed behaviour; he's doing this because _he wants to_.

"John." When Sherlock rubs his thumb over John's lower lip, John can see Sherlock's lips part slightly; he shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them and looks at John.

"John," he says again; his voice is almost pained.

"What is it?"

"John, you..." his voice breaks. "You make me want to - say things."

John's heart warms. "Sherlock, that's--" John doesn't know how to finish the sentence. "That's... good. I want--" he brushes his lips over Sherlock's cheek, his eyelid, slides them to his ear. "I want to hear them. All of them."

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment, pulling back and watching John's eyes. John can't quite read his expression, but he watches Sherlock's face, his eyes. John thinks back to everything over the past few months and he has the beginnings of an idea. Maybe he ought to test it out.

So John reaches for Sherlock's wrist, pulling him gently over toward the bureau. John turns to face the bureau, then pulls Sherlock against him until they're flush together, back against chest. John pulls his tee shirt overhead, then presses back against Sherlock, expelling a sharp breath when he feels the warmth of Sherlock's chest against him.

Sherlock's body goes still for a moment, then melts against John, his hands stroking slowly up John's arms. His fingertips are feather-light against John's skin, brushing his wrists, his forearms, the inner skin of his elbows. John sucks a sharp breath; the feel of Sherlock's fingers is erotically decadent.

Then Sherlock's mouth is on his neck, under his ear, pressing wet lips everywhere.

"John," he murmurs, his breath louder than his voice. " _John_."

John wonders when, exactly, the sound of his name became such a turn-on.

"I watch you," Sherlock says, mouthing the curve of John's neck. "I watch you all the time. You're fascinating. A study in contrasts, and every one of them a puzzle."

"Puzzles," Sherlock continues. His mouth is on John's ear now. "You are a puzzle with so many layers. The more I learn, the more I don't know... how is that possible?"

Sherlock's hands move from John's elbows up to his shoulders, then down over his sides to his waist. He slides one hand up, one thumb brushing John's nipple, while the other splays flat over John's abdomen, his middle finger dipping into John's navel.

"Christ," John whispers. "Fucking hell, Sherlock."

He arches back against Sherlock, feeling his skin -- damp with a light sweat -- starting to cling to Sherlock's. He rests his head back on Sherlock's shoulder, shutting his eyes and letting his nerves rise to the surface to feel every fucking bit of this. He wishes he had a photograph of this: their bodies pressed together, Sherlock wrapped around him everywhere. He was right: Sherlock needed to say this, needed to say it to John without the pressure of eye contact.

"I put on all of those disguises with you... for you," Sherlock whispers quietly. "All of those disguises, and you saw through every one. I don't know how you do it, how you are, but you're so--" Sherlock's voice breaks off, he presses his mouth to John's neck and sucks hard; it's going to leave a mark, but John can't be arsed to care. Sherlock's hands tighten against John's body, he presses forward against John's back and John can feel Sherlock's erection against the top of his arse.

Sherlock slides one hand upward, tipping John's chin toward him, and then he kisses John roughly, breathing raggedly into the kiss. John kisses back, sucking deeply on Sherlock's upper lip and pressing backward so their bodies are touching everywhere. They kiss and kiss, lips sliding messily in the dark until Sherlock breaks away from the kiss for a moment.

"I don't need - don't want to hide anymore," he gasps.

John's heart skips; the past few minutes seem as if they've existed in slow motion. He kisses the underside of Sherlock's chin then reaches for Sherlock's hands, holding them gently while he turns in his arms. Their bodies have moved apart, just a step.

John looks at Sherlock deliberately, holding his gaze.

"I see you," he says. "All of you."

John releases Sherlock's hands, brings one hand up to trace Sherlock's brow bone, then his jaw.

Sherlock's eyes roam over John's face, down to his lips, then back to his eyes.

"John," he whispers. As though it is the only word that matters. Then he steps forward again, kissing John, but touching only with his lips. John drops his hand to Sherlock's shoulders, to the curve of his collarbone, then shuts his eyes.

Everything is so slow, so deliberately fucking slow, as though they are kissing through molasses. They're barely touching, pressed together at their lips and knees, communicating only with fingertips and lip-skin.

It's the slowest series of kisses John has ever shared, pulling his thoughts out until they puddle on the floor around him.

Everything is so slow, so desperately slow... until it's not.

Because then Sherlock is against him, touching him everywhere, hands in John's hair, on his back, cupping his arse. John grunts, tangling his fingers into those impossible curls and kissing back fiercely.

"God, I want you," Sherlock gasps into his ear. "It's you, it's you... it's always been you. I don't know how I even--" he breaks off, mouthing the curve of John's neck and reaching between them for John's belt.

John rubs his cheek sleekly against Sherlock's, tonguing the corner of his mouth. Sherlock's hands fumble with John's belt and zipper then he slides to the floor, pulling John's trousers down in one motion. John looks down, sees Sherlock on his knees between his legs, with his eyes on the bulge in John's dark briefs, then he leans forward to nuzzle it briefly before glancing up and catching John's gaze.

"Oh Christ," John breathes. It's quite possible he's dreamed something exactly like this before, but it couldn't possibly be half as breathtaking as seeing it in front of him. Sherlock's eyes are wide, exultant; he probably has no idea how beautiful he looks. So John tells him.

Sherlock smiles, and his cheeks pinken. He rises, pulls John against him, then kisses him deeply again. John loses blissful minutes kissing Sherlock until his lips tingle with pressure, and he reaches down, slides his hands over Sherlock's back and squeezes two perfect handfuls of his arse.

After a few minutes, Sherlock walks them deliberately backward, pressing John down on the bed until he's lying flat. Sherlock pulls off John's socks, kisses the inside of his knees, and beams at him.

"You're here," he says quietly.

"I'm here," John echoes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock stands, letting his shirt fall from his shoulders and drop to the floor. He pulls off his socks first, one at a time, then pauses a minute, rising to his full height and unfastening his belt. He pulls off his trousers and briefs slowly, stepping out one foot at a time, his eyes watching John's reaction hungrily. He kneels on the foot of the bed and starts forward.

John's heart is in his throat. He almost can't believe this is happening. Sherlock. Sherlock is in his bed, crawling over him with darkened eyes and a swollen mouth. John's eyes rake over Sherlock's body, taking in the long lines, the tapered waist, the line of hair under his navel that curls down between his thighs. Sherlock's cock juts out from his body with a slight curve. John could look at him for hours.

"Christ, you're beautiful... so beautiful," he breathes.

Then Sherlock kneels between John's legs, lowering his body slowly against John's, skin against glorious skin, and oh so warm.

John presses one of his feet flat against the bed, curling his arms around Sherlock's back and pulling him down for another kiss. As they kiss and kiss, John's breath becomes less and less important.

Sherlock is light on top of him, resting his weight on one elbow while the other hand roams John's body and settles on his hip. John doesn't let these moments go to waste: questing fingertips slide over the full expanse of Sherlock's back, his neck, his arse. John has long wanted to feel every inch of Sherlock's skin, to commit it to memory. He has half a mind that something as perfect as this might well push all of the nightmares right out of his brain.

The window next to the bed is cracked open, letting the sounds of the London night wash over them. John thinks that someone deliberately listening on the street would have no doubt of exactly what is going on in the darkened room on the third floor and he grins to himself.

Sherlock pulls back for a moment, looks at John, his eyes flitting quickly over John's face.

"I'm not going to muffle any sounds you cause, Doctor," he says with a smile: a crooked, mischievous grin that John could look at for decades.

"Not good for your vocal cords anyway," John says.

"That makes no sense whatsoever."

"Nothing said in the heat of passion ever makes much sense out of context."

Sherlock looks affronted. "I _always_ make sense."

John kisses him once, twice. "Then I shall endeavour to be the first to drive you into full-on nonsense."

"I look forward to the experience."

Sherlock kisses his neck, his collarbone, moves toward the gnarled skin of John's shoulder and brushes it carefully with his lips. John lets out an involuntary moan.

"I think I'll take my own turn first, though." Sherlock kisses the corner of his mouth and nuzzles his jaw playfully. "That is, if it's all the same to you."

"Sherlock, you're in my bed, _naked_ , and we haven't stopped kissing for the past hour. There is nothing about this that is all the same to me."

Sherlock laughs, a full throaty laugh that wracks his abdomen; it rumbles against John's chest. John watches him, can feel his eyes crinkle fondly, and he feels himself falling just a little deeper.

He kisses John full on the mouth, which leads to John kissing back, to lips parting and tongues pressing in, to shared breath, and to John realising that he could lie here and snog Sherlock for days and be perfectly content. He's warm, comfortable, and more than a little aware of every inch of Sherlock's body that's pressed against his.

Eventually, Sherlock pulls back a little, smiles again, and leans over John's shoulder. He presses his lips into the very centre of John's scar and kisses it deliberately. John's stomach tenses, then flips completely over. He's never-- god, that feels...

"Sherlock," he gasps, shutting his eyes and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair as Sherlock explores every dip and ridge with his lips, with his tongue.

John's body is on fire as Sherlock finishes his exploration and moves down to his chest, taking his time on each of John's nipples until John can't tell if his eyes are still closed or simply fogged with sensation.

The minutes pass in ways John can barely fathom; it's as though time is being controlled by Sherlock himself. By the time Sherlock reaches his navel, actually pressing his tongue inside and licking the outer edge, John's mind is so overcome he couldn't answer a coherent question about any simple medical procedure if his life were on the line.

Then Sherlock nuzzles his way down the trail of hair under John's navel and stops at the elastic of John's briefs.

Stops.

It takes John a moment to realise it, but when he opens his eyes and looks down he sees Sherlock gazing up at him with darkened eyes. Sherlock nods in approval, then hooks his thumbs under the elastic and coaxes John's hips off the bed. He slides John's briefs down and off, tossing them overhead in a navy blue blur, then settles his body between John's thighs and nudges one leg open with his shoulder.

He examines for long moments, which might be disconcerting in someone else, but this is Sherlock. It makes John feel... fascinating, to be the subject of such intense scrutiny.

"You're beautiful," Sherlock breathes, and John's cheeks go warm. He presses his lips to the hair on John's inner thigh, drawing inward to the junction of his hip and thigh and inhaling deeply. Sherlock's thumbs caress the skin beside his scrotum, then one hand lifts and tugs it gently.

Meanwhile, Sherlock has propped himself up on one of his forearms and is doing a slow, careful study of every inch of John's cock. John gasps in surprise when Sherlock, seeming to find everything to his liking, presses the tip of his tongue to John's fraenulum. Shifting to the flat of his tongue, Sherlock moves upward over the glans, then takes the entire head in his mouth.

"Christ, oh Christ," John can hear himself babbling. " _Please_ keep doing that."

Whether Sherlock likes following directions, or is simply content to keep John's cock in his mouth for long periods of time, John has no idea, but Sherlock doesn't stop. His right hand curves itself at the bottom of John's cock, squeezing and sliding upward to meet every downward thrust of his mouth.

It is always a good thing when someone has their mouth on John's cock... and this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, who makes delicious little grunting sounds as he moves, and _holy fucking Christ_ , John could do this forever.

"Sherlock, god oh god, Sherlock," John gasps out, completely incapable of shutting his eyes even for a moment and losing the unreal sight in front of him. God, his eyelids are going to dry out and he won't have any eyeballs left, but it is a small price to pay, really, and probably Sherlock could do interesting experiments on them anyway. So it wouldn't be the greatest loss.

After a moment, though, it goes from being everything, to just short of _too much_ and John is damned if he's going to come this soon when they've only just got out of their clothes.

"Sherlock," he gasps again, pulling his hips away and tugging gently at Sherlock's head.

Sherlock slides up his body, his eyes dark and hungry. He kisses fire over John's skin as he slides. Glancing down, John can see Sherlock is still fully erect; the past minutes spent on John's cock clearly did nothing to diminish his arousal, which is quite amazing, really.

When Sherlock makes it up to his neck, John shifts under him, aligns their cocks until they're pressed together and arches upward while wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back.

"You feel so good," Sherlock breathes into his ear, sliding his thumb over John's temple and massaging it gently.

John doesn't say anything, just kisses Sherlock's temple, then his eyelid, then down to his mouth. Sherlock kisses him deeply, tongue pressing into every corner of John's mouth and sucking on his tongue. The line of Sherlock's jaw is mesmerising: long and slow, and moving with every kiss. This feels so different, so different than it was in 1992, yet as John's mind takes in every second, every whisper... he finds that it's still so much the same.

He can almost hear the twenty-two year old version of himself sigh in relief, step back, and let go.

Let go.

Let...

John realises what he wants at the same moment the rest of his body does; he can feel his cock twitch. He reaches out for the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a bottle of lube (well used) and a condom (optimistic purchase). When John presses them into his hand Sherlock blinks rapidly at him, pulls back.

"John?"

John leans up and kisses him lightly. "I want you to fuck me."

Sherlock looks directly at him for a long moment, his eyes boring right into John's. He looks hungry, so clearly turned on, but he's obviously searching John's face for something. They'd done all of this together more than seventeen years ago: naked and sweating and mouths all over each other, but what John has just suggested... well, they never quite made it that far. John pushes himself up to a sitting position, curls his body around Sherlock's and presses their lips together fiercely. John looks right back at Sherlock; he wills Sherlock to see him, to see this, to see how fucking _desperate_ he is. He wills him to look inside his mind, to pull his heart out of his chest if he needs to, see it beat _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..._

John wants; he wants so badly.

"Sherlock," he whispers, holding Sherlock's face between his hands and pressing their lips together gently. "Sherlock... I _want_ this... want you."

And then Sherlock is all over him, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. He falls to the bed and pulls John down with him. They lie on their sides, rocking their bodies together, legs intertwined and kissing wetly. John is drowning in Sherlock; the air around him is so full. Sherlock gasps out half-words and syllables and John swallows every one.

John reaches out, sliding his hand over Sherlock's side, then moves slowly back and forth across his chest, his lower abdomen. Sherlock shuts his eyes and rocks his head back in the pillows. It occurs to John that his bed is going to smell like Sherlock when he wakes up, and part of him can't wait to wake up for that.

"God, look at you..." he whispers, "I could look at you for hours."

Sherlock's hand is on John's back, pulling him closer until he's pressed against Sherlock's chest. His hand cups John's arse and then pulls John's leg up over his hip. He fumbles behind John's back for a moment, then John can feel the slick slip of Sherlock's finger tracing between his buttocks, pressing gently inside his anus.

"Christ," John pants, "oh, _Christ._ " It's been a good while since anyone else has had their fingers inside him, and his body shudders with the sensation. Sherlock is slow, deliberate. He obviously knows anatomy: can tell when to push in further, when to pause, when to pull out and push back in. He works his finger, then another, into John for a good while, breathing into his ear the whole time. John isn't sure he's going to be able to hear Sherlock's breathing ever again without becoming absurdly aroused.

When Sherlock crooks his fingers, John can feel them press lightly against his prostate gland and he swears under his breath, his vision blurred.

He loses all track of time, can't stop concentrating on the sensations flooding through him: Sherlock's breath in his ear, Sherlock's fingers shallow, then deeply inside him, the light cool breeze of the night. If John shuts his eyes, things are timeless: this could be seventeen years ago, tangled in the mottled sheets of Brad's bed, taking steps that John had never taken before.

But when he hears a grunted, " _John,_ " he opens his eyes to someone that can only be Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's eyes are unmistakeable: grey-green and focused solely on John. The look on his face is something like... god, it looks like reverence. As though this was something so much more for him as well.

John smiles and breathes and his heart nearly explodes with possibility.

He reaches for the condom and presses it into Sherlock's other hand, kissing him eagerly.

"I'm - god, I'm ready, Sherlock."

The breeze picks up, washing across John's fevered skin and ruffling Sherlock's hair. John reaches out to touch it, to slide his fingers through the brilliant mess of curls. Sherlock gently pushes John down on the bed, lies down on top of him and kisses him languidly.

The next few moments are a blur: Sherlock kneeling between his legs, tearing open the condom packet and sucking a sharp breath when John sits up to roll it on for him with a steady hand. He can hear the click of the bottle cap, sees Sherlock slicking himself. Then Sherlock's hands are back between his buttocks and John lies back, spreading his thighs and drawing them back toward his chest. The tips of two fingers trace the rim, then press just inside his anus.

Sherlock's eyes are on his face, watching every subtle change of expression, waiting. John locks his gaze on Sherlock and nods at him, his mouth open.

"Yes," he whispers as Sherlock removes his fingers and walks forward on his knees. "Please... _yes._ "

John is so profoundly aroused when Sherlock sinks into him, moving slowly, as though every inch were something new to experience. Sherlock's eyes watch him hungrily, taking in every one of John's breaths, every single twitch of muscle.

Sherlock lowers himself down over John, slides his hands and forearms under John's shoulder blades; their faces are a whisper apart. John feels surrounded in every way: Sherlock over him, around him, inside him. Sherlock moves slowly, deeply in and out; his breath is shallow, his eyes heavy and dark.

John has always liked sex -- he can think of very few men who don't -- but this... this is altogether different. God, it's everything... the closeness, the raw, bare intimacy of their bodies together, of Sherlock so deeply inside him... it's a wonder he can still breathe.

"John," Sherlock whispers, " _John_."

John looks up at him, almost blind with lust, his heart beating desperately. "Yes... yes, my god, Sherlock, I want you so badly."

Then Sherlock's mouth is on his, an inelegant press of lips and teeth, kissing John furiously.

"I need you," he breathes, tearing his mouth away and speaking right into John's ear. "Need you around, need you with me..."

John arches his hips off the bed, curling his arms tightly around Sherlock's back and kisses his temple, the line of his hair. He's not going anywhere.

"I... it's just..." Sherlock's breath is ragged. "With you... everything finally makes sense with you. You make... you make the things in my mind tolerable. You connect things in my head, make the pathways clear."

Sherlock's movements had grown erratic while he was speaking, but now he finds a rhythm. The pressure of him angled deep inside John is maddening; a burst of longing flows through him, which is ridiculous. Ridiculous because Sherlock is right here, here inside him, whispering devotions to John like he's in a confessional.

And John... there's so much he wants to say, so much he can feel here between them. John doesn't want to be afraid to say things, hopes this delicate balance they've finally achieved won't go anywhere. Sherlock presses their foreheads together, breathes John's heavy breath, and watches him.

"Tell me," Sherlock says quietly. "Tell me, please."

John's heart is in his throat. Sherlock can read him so well, always seems to be able to read his mind. And yet... now he can't put any of it into words - are there even words for this?

"All of that," John says, "everything you said, Sherlock. With you, I--" he shuts his eyes, "with you, I don't feel broken anymore..."

Sherlock stills completely, fully seated inside him. John opens his eyes, looks up with a question in his eyes. Sherlock's face is quiet, thinking, but then he breaks into a wide, brilliant smile that nearly stops John's heart.

"And to think," Sherlock says quietly, "all it took was a bottle of lubricant and some prophylactics to get us here."

"Well," John grins back as he corrects him, "four months of crazy disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics..."

Sherlock looks down for a moment, then back to John. "If you're going to get technical: seventeen years, four months of disguises, a bottle of lubricant, and some prophylactics."

Understanding and warmth flows through John; he feels lighter than he has in years.

"Worth it, though."

"You think so?"

"Definitely."

Sherlock seals their lips together, kissing John lightly; his eyes are open and honest.

"Maybe we ought to get back to it, then?"

"Excellent deduction."

"Well, I am the world's only consulting detective."

"You are certainly the wordiest."

"So, what does that say about you, then?"

"That your voice turns me on?"

A smile spreads across Sherlock's face. "Does it?"

John slides one hand over the back of Sherlock's neck, tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of Sherlock's skull, and kisses him lightly. "Why don't you experiment and find out?"

Sherlock grins at him, then starts moving his hips again, moving shallowly inside John and leaning down to whisper into John's ear. After a full minute of this, John can barely pay attention to anything: every sensation blurs until he's overwhelmed and gasping, clinging to Sherlock and sliding his thumb over Sherlock's sweaty brow.

His cock is trapped between them; the feel of it rubbing against Sherlock's abdomen is slowly doing him in.

"God," he pants, " _why_ haven't we done this before?"

Sherlock stops kissing his neck, pulls his head up until he can look into John's eyes. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, and his lower lip hangs low. "Can you - _fuck,_ John, can you come like this?"

The sound of that curse from Sherlock's lips sets his stomach aflame and John leans up to lick that perfect lower lip.

"I think so... yeah. Are you close?"

"Getting there, yeah."

Sherlock slides his hands further under John's shoulder blades, drops his head to John's shoulder and starts thrusting in earnest. John is on edge; everything starts coiling low in his abdomen and he presses up against every movement Sherlock makes. Every push of Sherlock inside him, every hard press against his cock, the sound of Sherlock's breath next to his ear... oh god, it's...

It's fucking _exquisite_.

John's not going to last, not going to - he's going to... god, oh god...

"Sherlock," he gasps out. "I--"

Everything goes white, then sparks of brilliant colours flash behind his eyes and everything pours out of him at once. He clings to Sherlock, digging his fingertips into the skin of his back and letting go of his breath.

After a moment John returns to reality, finds Sherlock watching him fondly.

"Christ," he breathes. "That was... god, that just--"

Then John realises something. "You haven't come. Can you, like this? Do you need me to move, to--"

Sherlock grunts, "Nearly there, I just need..." his voice is ragged. "Is it okay, like this... if we keep going?"

"God yes, Sherlock, please."

When Sherlock starts moving again John realises that he'd stopped, let John ride out his own orgasm, and his throat tightens.

His body is over sensitised; he can feel every pull and drag of Sherlock inside him. "God," he whispers. "That feels -- you feel -- amazing."

"John. John, John..." Sherlock's voice is in his ear, quieter than a whisper, but John can hear every syllable. "John, my god, I... I, I--"

John curls around him, pressing his knees against Sherlock's back and pulling Sherlock as close as they can possibly get. Sherlock is silent for a long moment, then John's name tears out of his throat with a low moan and John feels him shudder above him. The shudder wracks his body and John holds him close, kissing the side of his neck reverently.

They lie there quietly for a long moment before Sherlock shifts away, one hand sliding between them to grasp the base of the condom before he pulls carefully out of John. He reaches for the box of tissues on John's bedside cabinet and disposes of the condom, then flumps down on the bed next to John with a sigh.

"That was amazing."

John grins at him. "It was pretty bloody amazing, wasn't it?"

Sherlock slides over, curls his body around John and takes a deep breath. "Please tell me we don't have to wait another seventeen years to do that again."

John laughs. "My recovery time isn't what it used to be, but I think I can safely say we've got nothing to worry about in that area."

"Good." Sherlock's eyes blink sleepily. "I've got plans for you, Doctor."

"I would expect nothing less."

John reaches for the duvet and pulls it up over both of them, then settles back down and shuts his eyes, utterly content.

 

~*~

 

John wakes, oddly at ease and glances automatically toward the window. It's still dark, only the barest of light coming in from the streetlights below. He's been asleep for a while, but still quite groggy, and he has a good number of hours left until morning.

He yawns, then realises he's not at all alone in his bed.

Sherlock.

Sherlock's body is wrapped around his, his arm thrown over John's waist and his head on John's chest. Their legs are tangled together; John can feel the top of Sherlock's right foot pressed against the base of his left.

Slowly John tests his muscles as he does every morning, shifting briefly. His legs are fine, no residual (psychosomatic) discomfort in his right leg. His shoulder... fine, too. No pain there. When John shifts his hips, a twinge of discomfort in his arse sends memories rippling through his mind: Sherlock standing in front of him, deliberately removing his disguise... the feel of Sherlock's chest pressed against his back, his breath on his ear... Sherlock crawling toward him, fully nude, erect and gorgeous... pressing upward, his arms tangled around Sherlock's back as Sherlock moves inside him...

He smiles, shutting his eyes for a moment to savour the images, to let them all replay in his mind for a moment. Sherlock shifts in sleep, nuzzles John's chest and mumbles something incomprehensible, then settles down. John smiles fondly at him, reaching upward to push the tangled curls out of his eyes, trace his brow bone.

John wonders if he's still processing last night: finally coming together, finally breaking through the walls between them. And what a breakthrough it had been. John smirks. God, it had been fucking incredible. He could live a lifetime's worth of wank fantasies on last night alone.

It feels like it's been so long, so long since that night a few weeks ago when everything fell into place and John had realised that the first man he'd ever kissed, the first man he'd ever been with -- the only person he'd ever really felt desperate for -- had been Sherlock in disguise. God, that night. John doesn't think he's ever felt that angry before. The thought that Sherlock had planned the entire thing, had _been_ planning it, had felt like such a complete betrayal.

He remembers Sherlock's earnest confession in the kitchen, hours later: the betrayal he had felt when John had walked out of the changing stalls at the pool, with a bomb strapped under his jacket and a microphone in his ear.

Both of their assumptions about each other had been so far off the mark. John thinks about that for a moment: betrayal that wasn't really betrayal. Is there even such a thing? Or, are he and Sherlock (as always) making everything up as they go along?

All of that misunderstanding, the mismatched expectations, misplaced desire... and yet... John glances down. Here they are now: tangled together, even in sleep.

John presses his lips gently against Sherlock's forehead, his thoughts suddenly fierce. God, how far they've come.

Sherlock stirs, slides his cheek against John's chest (god, that feels good), then opens his eyes sleepily. John grins at him then touches the hair falling over his forehead. Sherlock glances around: at the setting, the time showing on the clock, at their limbs completely intertwined and his eyes widen briefly.

John can't help the moment of panic he feels. It's nearly exactly what happened all those years ago, with Brad. He looks away, bracing himself emotionally. He takes a deep breath. When he looks back, Sherlock is watching him, his eyes no longer heavy with sleep. Sherlock doesn't shift at all, doesn't say a word, doesn't look away. He simply looks back at John, his eyes clear.

His silence says more to John than any words, and John feels warmth diffuse through him. Sherlock's not going anywhere. John tightens his arm around Sherlock's back, strokes the top of Sherlock's foot with his own, and kisses the ridge of his brow.

Sherlock's not going anywhere... neither is John.

 

~*~

 

 **epilogue:**

 

The make up weighs heavily on him as he walks into the coffee shop. John glances around nervously, avoiding the hidden east corner from where he knows he's being watched. He wonders if someone will notice right away, or if it's as inconspicuous as he's hoping.

At the counter, John orders a ridiculously complicated coffee concoction. The cashier blinks at him the first time, and he has to repeat his order three times before she gets it right.

Make it memorable. First objective: complete.

The first two times his goal had been to be as unobtrusive as possible, but now it's time for a little less subtlety.

As he steps over to wait for his order, John rests his arm on the counter, looking around unselfconsciously: a few mothers with toddlers, three smartly dressed business people huddled around a computer, and several students, obviously in need of a liquid stimulant.

After the barista passes him the warm cup, John wraps his hands around it and walks over to sit in one of the empty barstools. He purposely scrapes the chair loudly over the tiled floor, sits deliberately, and arranges his posture into an "I'm available" pose.

He feels slightly ridiculous.

But it works.

A few of the patrons in line eye him appreciatively. After a few minutes, one comes over to sit down next to him. After a moment, he starts making small talk, which John returns. He resists the urge to look at his watch, but instead glances at the clock behind the bloke chatting him up. Five minutes. He needs to keep this up for five minutes. He can do that.

John slips into wild flirtation mode and smiles widely.

"So, David," he says charmingly, resisting the urge to glance across the shop at the dark haired man watching his every move. "What do you do?"

 

~*~

 

After nearly four minutes of this, John is glad he has a job that doesn't require disguises. While he doesn't think David suspects anything, John can feel his heart is still beating heavily. It's a wonder he's not sweating through the make up.

After exactly five minutes, Sherlock rises from his perch in the back of the shop and looks significantly at John. John beams at him, his heartbeat speeding up. John makes an absurd excuse to David -- in fact, he thinks he might have said 'sorry, I have to... basket, candle, Scotland' -- and is out the door of the shop before David can return his goodbye.

He turns into the alleyway next to the shop and is immediately swept into a rough embrace, his breath cut off by two perfectly warm lips. John sighs and leans into the kiss, his body immediately responding to the familiarity.

Perhaps ludicrous disguises are worth it if this is what he gets for his trouble.

They kiss for long minutes -- it's as if they hadn't just had enthusiastic sex three hours ago -- until John pulls away and smiles.

"So," he asks. "How did I do?"

"Full marks for the disguise," Sherlock says. "No one gave you a second glance that wasn't a typical one. You had four appreciative glances, and six people looked for far longer than necessary at your arse."

He squeezes it appreciatively as if to emphasise his point.

John is surprised. "That good?"

"Well, the disguise notwithstanding: your stance was all wrong, and you broke character three and a half times."

"A half? How does that even--"

"You also glanced at the clock more than once, but you did do it when the mark wasn't looking, so there's that."

"So, not as good as the great Sherlock Holmes," John says, "but passable."

"More than passable."

John goes warm under Sherlock's heated look. They both move forward at the same time. Sherlock leans down, his eyes roaming over John's changed appearance.

"I like you ginger." Sherlock says, his lips close and brushing the base of John's neck with his fingers. "But I miss the patches of grey."

John rolls his eyes. "Ahh, yes. That delightful reminder of exactly how many years I have on you." He shakes his head, glances up at Sherlock's shock of dark hair. "You'll probably never go grey except all at once, on your seventieth birthday, and everyone will remark on how ridiculously dignified it looks."

"And then I'll tell them all how I've been coveting your grey since not long after we met and that I'm delighted to finally match the man that I've spent most of my life with."

John cocks his head. "You sure you're not just saying that to get me into bed tonight?"

"As if I needed such an excuse."

"Not for a good several months now, no."

The gist of Sherlock's previous words sink in; John lets them turn over in his head for a moment. He grins slowly. Sherlock is watching his eyes carefully; his eyes widen a fraction when he sees John's recognition.

Given what has transpired between them over the past few months, neither of them -- particularly Sherlock -- has been all that vocal about where things are going, so just that simple admission feels like something... big.

John leans up and kisses Sherlock's lower lip softly. _I love you_ , he thinks. _I love you; I love this... I love us._

Sherlock closes his eyes for longer than a blink, then smiles crookedly at John. The warmth of his glance nearly cancels out the early winter wind swirling around them.

His thumbs are on the joints of John's jaw and he rubs gently over the beard John's let grow for two weeks now. "You should keep this a while," he murmurs. One of his fingers caresses the bald patch under John's lower lip, then traces both of his lips.

John wrinkles his nose. "Don't see that happening. Itchy as hell, and a pain to take care of. Give me a good shave every day or two over this..." he gestures to it, "this... bloody thing."

"I like it."

"You like smacking corpses with your riding crop and keeping body parts in the refrigerator, Sherlock. Pardon me if I don't take your word on this as a particularly useful one to heed."

Sherlock's eyelids lower a fraction and he leans down to John's ear. "What if I told you I'd make it worth your while?"

Sharp tremors shiver down John's spine and he can't help but lean into Sherlock's warmth.

"Well." John is having trouble getting words out. "I'd probably tell you to piss off, but I imagine I'd keep it anyway."

Sherlock presses their lips together, backing John further up against the wall as he kisses him. John shuts his eyes, letting Sherlock's tongue brush over the top of his before pressing back, before curling his arms tightly around Sherlock and pulling him flush against John's body, before sealing their mouths together and breathing Sherlock in, better than the sweetest air.

The rough brick scrapes his jacket, but the weight of it holds him up, lets him focus only on what matters: soft wet lips, dark tangled curls, and eyes that look at John as though he were nothing short of a miracle.

John moans as he kisses back, wanting nothing more than to kiss Sherlock until every neuronal pathway echoes his name. Sherlock breaks off, kissing the skin under his ear, the cord of his neck, whispering non-words into his skin until every nerve on John's skin is on edge and quivering with sensation.

Tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair, John lets his mind slide into nonsense. He's forty-one years old, snogging his boyfriend desperately in an alleyway at the end of the day, and completely incapable of caring about anything else.

God, he could do this forever.

After a small eternity, Sherlock's phone rings. They both pull away immediately, but their legs are still intertwined. Sherlock glances down and John sees his eyes light up at the sight of the phone number. It must be Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock has a brief conversation, from which John can deduce nothing, then hangs up and stuffs his phone into his pocket triumphantly.

"A case?"

"Of course."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"So why are you still standing here, then?"

Sherlock glances down between them, at the blatancy of their arousal, then back up to John sheepishly.

"Lestrade can wait."

"But can you?"

Sherlock looks at him, his eyes wide and open, more honest than John has seen them.

"I can wait for you," he says quietly.

They breathe together for a moment, grinning. At once, they take off running down the street, swerving around pedestrians and keeping pace with each other, stride for stride, as they run in the waning light of the afternoon: two formerly broken men, having the time of their lives.

 

**-end-**

 

Thank you so much for reading! ♥

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was such an amazing labor of love; so many people cheered me on and were so enthusiastic as I babbled about my progress on it. Thank you as well to those on tumblr who linked to it. I appreciate it all more than you know. ♥
> 
> Please, please, go look at the absolutely glorious art done for this story by sisterzurda. [One](http://sisterzurda.livejournal.com/36613.html), [Two](http://sisterzurda.livejournal.com/38993.html), and her [gallery](http://annacarrota.deviantart.com/gallery/)


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